


So Cold and So Sweet

by halfabreath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe, Blood, Drowning, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Water Imagery, Homophobia, I PROMISE THIS IS A FUN FIC IT'S NOT AS SCARY AS THE TAGS MAKE IT SOUND, Illness, M/M, SMH Ensemble - Freeform, Violence, character death (but not really), scooby doo-esque shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-26 09:18:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16678849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: After suffering a nervous breakdown, Dr. Justin Oluransi moves into a lighthouse on the coast of Maine and accidentally summons a selkie husband. The only problem? He doesn't actually know they're married, and his husband doesn't remember anything about his human life.This story is, ultimately, about two idiots accidentally falling in love. Oh, and they solve a murder.





	1. I'm Going Under

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit. this started out as a bullet fic on tumblr and became this beast, and while writing it has been a struggle at times, it has always, always, been a joy. 
> 
> a huge, ginormous thank you to my betas, @booboothedude and especially @thatjutsu (ao3) for being a champion. 
> 
> please listen to the official playlist (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/43LeczxgSdGKzvT5k16PlQ) as you read! and check out the tag on tumblr (http://http://halfabreath.tumblr.com/tagged/selkie!holster) if you're so inclined.
> 
> part two will be posted on 11/21. part three will be posted on 11/22.

_Surgeons are fearless, because there is no room for fear when a person’s life hangs in the balance. Surgeons are bold, brash, and above all, brave. Surgeons have cool heads and steady hands. Surgeons make groundbreaking discoveries and change the world around them one slice at a time._

_Surgeons do not have anxiety. They do not have panic attacks twenty hours, thirteen minutes, and forty eight seconds into a twenty two hour landmark surgery and curl into the fetal position on the operating room floor with the patient’s skull still cracked open on the table above them._

_Surgeons are not afraid._

_And so, Justin Oluransi, MD, is not a surgeon anymore._

* * *

 

“The Stanley Cup has survived countless adventures, some widely known but most cherished only in the memories of the men who have raised her. None is more mysterious than the Cup’s disappearance and sudden reemergence after the 1976 Stanley Cup finals. The now defunct Quebec City Eagles, Les Aigles de Quebec, defeated the Boston Bruins in an astounding eleventh hour victory to claim their second Cup of the decade. The young franchise was laid to rest just three years later in 1979, shocking the hockey world yet again when gross negligence on the part of team owner Thomas Lapointe - ”

The narrator’s gravelly voice settles over Ransom’s limbs, dragging him down to the cusp of consciousness. Pictures of hockey heroes past flash over the screen as Ransom closes his eyes, content to watch the light waxing and waning beneath his eyelids. He’s not quite relaxed but he’s comfortable, at least, the constant anxiety pounding through his thoughts reduced from its usual roar to a quiet thrum. He drags a hand up to his neck, pressing two finger tips to his pulse point.

His heartbeat is steady, not quite fast enough to worry him. Ransom is content to count his heartbeats as the documentary drags on, the narrator’s voice reduced to a baritone melody softly humming in the background. Ransom’s heart beats two hundred and thirty three times before a voice drags him back.

“Rans. Ransom,” Nursey startles him and the sensations come flooding back. Ransom’s hand is still pressed against his neck, his other arm is asleep from being pinned against his torso and the arm of Nursey’s couch, and the screen is filled with a close up of Daniel Freeman, the commissioner of the NHL. Ransom doesn’t have time to register what Nursey is trying to tell him as he pauses the documentary, the TV screen casting shadows over his features. Nursey’s thick eyebrows are gathered together, his lips turned down in a small frown.

“Ransom,” Nursey says again, reaching out to place a gentle hand on Ransom’s leg. They’re settled on opposite ends of Nursey’s huge couch, but they’re both so big there’s only a few inches between them. Ransom blinks.

“What’s up?” Ransom asks, gaze flickering between Nursey’s worried expression and Freeman’s frozen features.

“You’re doing it again,” Nursey’s voice is so gentle but his words crash into Ransom’s chest, sending him reeling. His heartbeat picks up, thundering beneath his fingertips, and Ransom can hear it pounding even when he tears his hand away.

Nine hundred and twenty one heartbeats later, Ransom realizes he’s somehow gone from stretched out on his back to curled up tightly on his side, his muscles aching and tense. There’s a hand on his back, smoothing down his spine, and Ransom knows it’s Nursey, knows it’s his friend, knows his friend is trying to help him, and despite the knowing he still feels nausea building with every passing second. The weight of Nursey’s hand is all encompassing and terrifying, pressing down on his vertebrae. Ransom swears he feels them cracking. He’s not sure if it’s from the trembling or the hand, but he jerks away nevertheless, tucks his forehead against his knees, and forces air down his throat in a strangled gasp.

The hand is removed, the weight is lifted, and expelling the air is just a little bit easier. Ransom forces more air into his lungs and goes back to counting heartbeats.

The next time he opens his eyes the room is bathed in soft white light. Ransom’s arms tremble when he pushes himself up off the couch but his legs hold his weight as he stumbles through his morning routine: teeth, shower, shave, clothes, water, food.

“That’s the first one this week,” Nursey remarks moments after Ransom walks into the kitchen, green eyes still glued to the manuscript he’s reading. He slashes a quick line through one of the typed sentences, somehow graceful even as he extinguishes words from the page. “And it’s been at least three weeks since your last panic attack.” Nursey glances up only to look back down and write a quick note next to the sentence he scratched out.

“Yay, I’m fixed,” Ransom mumbles into his water. He downs the glass in one long gulp, stomach urging him to move on to the next step in his routine.

Nursey levels a disapproving frown his way, but lets the remark slide. He nudges a plate of fruit and toast towards Ransom, as attuned to his routine as Ransom is after four months of letting him sleep in his guest room.

“The point is, things are better than they were, and I think you’re ready for a change in scenery.” Nursey says once Ransom’s mouth is occupied with a giant orange slice.

Ransom swallows it down quickly, not even enjoying the burst of bright flavor that explodes in his mouth. “Oh. I - Okay, I can have my stuff out by tonight, I just need,” He cuts himself off, already trying to assemble a to-do list. He needs to pack, of course, or should he look for a new place to live first? Which comes first, the packing or the apartment hunting? Something tugs at his left hand; Nursey’s reached across the table to take Ransom’s shaking hand in both of his.

“No, no, Ransom, hey. Justin. I’m not kicking you out. When I said you can stay as long as you wanted I meant it. I’m sorry, I should have been more clear.” Nursey explains carefully, voice still low and soothing despite the urgency. Then again, Ransom’s not even sure Nursey _can_ sound urgent in the traditional sense of the word. “You know how I go up to Maine when I have a big deadline? My editor wanted the second half of my next book by August and I was like cool, I can do that, so I rented  my usual place but then the whole bestseller list thing happened with my first book, and everything went like,” He makes a little explosion sound with his mouth, because only Nursey would describe his book reaching the #1 slot on the New York Times Bestseller List as a ‘thing’ that happened. “So now I have a book tour scheduled for the summer instead and the deadline is pushed way back because I haven’t been able to write with all the publicity.”

“I know about the tour. We’ve talked about it and I promise I’ll be out of your hair when it starts in July.” Ransom picks a wayward piece of peel off another orange slice with his free hand, delicately removing the white pith clinging to the fruit. Across the table, Nursey squeezes his hand to draw his attention. When he looks up Nursey is looking decidedly un-chill.

“My editor called this morning and I have to leave in three weeks. I’m going to California, too.” Nursey winces as he speaks, shoulders creeping up to meet his ears. He looks guilty, and Ransom can’t have that.

“That’s amazing.” Ransom says warmly, slipping into the chair beside Nursey to pull him in for a hug. The weight of Nursey’s head on his shoulder and his arms around Ransom’s torso doesn’t feel like it had last night. Now it’s bright and warm, keeping him tethered to the ground instead of dragging him beneath the surface. “Congrats, man. Don’t worry about me, I’ll just find a place and move out when you leave.” Ransom says, words muffled against Nursey’s hair. He gives his friend one last squeeze  and pulls away, slipping back into his original chair. Nursey watches him for a moment and Ransom knows him well enough to recognize that he’s being studied. Nursey’s taking him apart like he does with words, picking apart his structure and syntax until the raw, pure emotion rises to the surface.

“That’s just it. I think you should go up to Maine.” Nursey’s tone is calm, level, almost calculated, like he’s weighed the pros and cons and decided that this is the best course of action. Knowing Nursey, how careful and intentional he is, he probably has.

Ransom had just raised a piece of toast to his mouth, but lowers it before he has a chance to eat it. “What? What would I do there?”

“It’s so chill, I know it’ll help. You’re doing so much better, Shitty and Lardo will visit to make sure everything’s okay, and I have friends in town who can be there in twenty minutes if you need anything.” Nursey taps his fingers on the table to underscore his points, working his way through Ransom’s unspoken concerns systematically.

“What, that ginger you always complain about? Dax? Dix? You think I should hang out with, and I quote, ‘the unwokest, unchillest, unbelievably annoying human being you’ve ever met’?” Ransom’s been on the other end of too many frustrated phone calls from Nursey during the summers he spends in Maine. He drags the corner of his toast across his plate, blunting the crisp angle as it crumbles over his plate.

“I think you should take care of yourself, and that’s the best place I know to do it.” Nursey’s so earnest Ransom has to look up. “And,” Nursey adds, ducking his head sheepishly.  “Dex means well. I may have, uh, left out some of the nicer things he did. He’ll be there if you need someone.” Ransom studies Nursey’s face, taking in his small, sincere smile.

“Fine, I’ll go. When does the rental start?” Ransom asks. He takes a huge bite of toast and can barely hear Nursey’s reply over the crunching.

“Next weekend. I know it’s fast -” Nursey trails off, when Ransom waves the apology away before it can leave his mouth. Ransom takes a long sip of water, trying to wash the dry breadcrumbs out of his mouth, swallowing with a wince before he speaks.

“No, it’s great. Thank you, really. You’re a good friend.” Ransom says, because it’s true. He brushes the crumbs off his fingers and squeezes Nursey’s hand. Nursey returns the gesture before pulling his hand away to get back to his editing.

“Come on, eat your breakfast. It won’t be my fault if your routine gets fucked up.” Nursey punctuates his sentence with the end of his pen, jabbing it at Ransom’s hand until he reaches for his food again with ink-stained fingers.

“Bro, it’s always your fault,” Ransom shoots back, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth. Nursey laughs and reaches over to draw a curved line under two of the inked dots on the back of Ransom’s hand to create a lopsided smiley face. They’re quiet for a while. The only sounds are the cacophony of the streets below and the crunch of Ransom’s breakfast. He’s just polished off his first cup of coffee when Nursey finally speaks again.

“Hey, do you want to see the place?” Nursey taps at his phone and slides it across the table when he’s pulled up the right picture.

“Sure,” Ransom agrees. He brushes the crumbs off his fingers and picks up the phone, careful to avoid the tip of Nursey’s pen. He stares down at the picture on the screen for a long moment before looking back at his friend in disbelief. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Six days later Ransom finds himself on a cliff on the coast of Maine, neck aching as he stares up at his home for the next few months. The lighthouse is objectively charming with its bright white paint and cheerful red stripe but it also looks like something out of a Disney movie, and Ransom’s life right now is the exact opposite of the idyllic scene before him. There’s green grass beneath his feet and an entire ocean laid out before him, vast and gorgeous. Even breathing is different here. The air tastes like saltwater, not disinfectant and stale hospital air or trash and subway steam, and when he breathes deep he doesn’t have to force himself to let it back out.

The ocean wind rushes over his cheeks as he fumbles with the keys. The lock is a little sticky but eventually gives and the door opens with a loud squeak; no wonder Nursey mentioned going to the hardware store so often on his past visits. He steps into the lighthouse and heads straight for the stairs. The ground level is filled with guest rooms he won’t ever use, so he pays no mind to the closed doors lining the small common room. The spiral staircase is a tight squeeze with his bag but he manages to tuck it against his chest just so in order to make it up to the second level.

The staircase drops him right in the middle of the kitchen and living room. Large windows dominate the space, filling the large circular room with light and continuous ocean views. The kitchen is small and utilitarian with open shelves instead of cabinets and the furniture in the living room is clustered together. There’s a large kitchen table with eight chairs gathered around it; for the first time since arriving, Ransom feels lonely. He looks around the room, takes in the sunlight flooding through the windows and the blankets thrown over the overstuffed armchairs and couch, and it’s suddenly too bright and open for just one person.

He’ll give it a week. He can’t see himself enjoying the emptiness for much longer than that.  

The spiral staircase continues up to the master bedroom. He has to awkwardly tuck his bag against his chest again to make it up but once his head clears he hurries up the past few steps, annoyance and loneliness forgotten. Ransom drops the bag on the floor, jaw hanging open, as he takes in the floor to ceiling windows and crisp white sheets. The bed is huge, plush and inviting, and the ocean is opened up behind it, blue and green and utterly gorgeous. Ransom is not sure how long he stands there, forehead pressed against the glass as he watches the waves crash against the rocky shore and the gulls circling over the cliffs, but even after he tears himself away he’s tempted to pull up a chair and just watch the light ripple over the huge expanse of water before him.

He’ll give it two weeks. Maybe a month.

Ransom deposits his bag on the bed, fighting the urge to immediately unpack and arrange everything in its proper place. He wants to explore, damn it, so he continues up the central staircase. Above the bedroom there’s a long climb up to the very top of the lighthouse. There are two final levels, the top dominated by the old light and an outdoor platform with an iron wrought railing. The lower level features an incredible view of the ocean and must have been where the original mechanism for the light was housed but now it’s filled with a desk with a small bookshelf crammed in beside it.  Ransom smooths his palm over the whorls dancing over the woodgrain and imagines Nursey writing here, how he creates chaos with his mountains of notebooks and scribbled rewrites in the margins of the loose papers he always carries around with him just before a deadline.

Ransom tugs open one of the desk drawers, half expecting to find a manuscript or one of Nursey’s doodles. A few pens and pencils rattle across the wood but a flash of white a the back of the drawer catches the corner of Ransom’s eye. He sweeps his fingertips along the back of the drawer and the smooth wood gives way to soft fabric. He pulls a black moleskine notebook out of the drawer and slips the elastic off the front cover. The first page is a neat to-do list written in Nursey’s familiar handwriting dated for June of last year, each item carefully crossed off ( _buy groceries_ and _call Rans_ are both underlined; Ransom remembers getting the call minutes before he’d scrubbed in on a surgery but he doesn’t remember what they’d talked about). The next page is filled with geometric doodles, the same sketches Ransom’s seen all over Nursey’s notes when they were in college, and the third, and every page after, is blank. Nursey must have forgotten about it and left it last summer.

Ransom closes the drawer and goes back down the steps. With the notebook in hand, the huge living room somehow feels less lonely than before. The rest of the day is spent unpacking and exploring. The lighthouse is situated on a cliff and it doesn’t take Ransom long to find the meandering stone steps that lead down to the rocky beach he’d seen from the bedroom. He considers going down, but then remembers he’d have to come back up again, and throws the thought aside; he has too much work to do.

It’s nice, being busy again. Ransom writes a quick to-do list of his own in the notebook and works his way through each task methodically, starting with unpacking and ending with driving into town to get groceries. It feels like Samwell - it looks different, smells different, Ransom’s a little more bruised than he ever was at Samwell - but something about it feels like that little college town did. Maybe it’s the people, maybe it’s the atmosphere, or maybe, Ransom thinks as he strolls through Main Street and ducks into the hardware store Nursey’s mentioned so many times, maybe it feels like he could be happy here.

It’s too big of an expectation for a place he’s spent all of twenty minutes in, so Ransom banishes it to the back of his mind and collects a few odds and ends he needs to make the lighthouse feel more like a house and less like a, well, lighthouse. He deposits the items on the counter, where a young, freckled man with bright orange hair begins scanning them.

“Here for the summer?” The ginger asks as he smoothly swipes the items over the scanner and deposits them into a paper bag.

“Yeah, up at the lighthouse. A friend let me use his rental.” Ransom replies. It’s a little strange to make small talk, especially when the ginger immediately frowns.

“Nursey’s not coming up?” He asks, eyes narrowing, and Ransom suddenly knows exactly who he is.

“You’re Dex!” Ransom says, the words spilling from his mouth before he can stop them. Dex leans back, eyes widening in surprise, and Ransom suddenly realizes that it’s objectively weird for him to know as much about the man in front of him as he knows. “Nursey’s told me about you,” he explains, and color floods Dex’s cheeks. Interesting.

“He’s talked about me?” Dex asks, sounding genuinely confused as he puts the last item into Ransom’s bag.

“Yeah, how you’d help fix stuff at the lighthouse and stuff.” Ransom says, because he doesn’t think Dex would appreciate knowing he’s been the subject of more than one of Nursey’s rants. “I’m Justin Oluransi.” He holds out a hand and Dex takes it, giving it a firm shake.

“Ransom, right? It doesn’t make sense for you to be Bitty or Shitty or Lardo or Chowder.” Dex says, and Ransom has no idea how he knows all that but he just nods his head. Dex and Nursey must have spent some time not fighting after all. The conversation falls flat as Ransom fumbles with his card and Dex taps at the ancient cash register and Ransom feels sufficiently awkward by the time his receipt prints.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” Ransom tries, because he used to know what to do in social situations, and Dex just nods and gives him a little wave. They have all summer to figure out how to talk to each other.

Later that night Ransom walks his dinner up to the top level of the lighthouse and eats it at Nursey’s desk. He stares out at the ocean, watching the sinking sun light up the sky with vivid shades of orange and purple. He sits there until it’s too dark to see the water and makes his way down the spiral staircase. When he climbs into bed (he’s a big guy but this bed makes him feel _tiny_ ) he brings his laptop with him. He stares at his inbox, filled to the brim with unread messages from colleagues and old classmates asking what happened or when he’s coming back to work. They’re vultures, circling over him to check for signs of life so they can apply for his vacated position or take over his research. He skims through them, stomach churning, but he can’t bring himself to look away. He reads every word of every email, taking in the passive aggressive questions and false sympathy. He reads until his eyes burn from the bright screen or unshed tears or both and only slams his laptop shut when the battery runs out. Ransom rolls over, staring out at the inky night sky until he falls asleep.

Lighthouse life isn’t nearly as dramatic as Ransom had assumed. It’s mostly cardio, honestly, with all the stairs. He makes a routine and sticks to it, adjusting the framework he’d developed when he was staying with Nursey to fit his new life and by the end of the first week he’s a well-oiled machine. He adds things here or there, be it a weekly trip into town or time to sketch out his day in his little notebook, but for the most part his life doesn’t change. Sure, now he sits by the ocean instead of Nursey’s couch or watches the seagulls flight patterns instead of Brooklyn’s crowded streets, but as different as it is it’s still the same. As different as Ransom is, he’s still the same, too.

He’s not sure if he’ll ever change again. His progress has plateaued, and Ransom’s beginning to accept that this is who he is now. No amount of time spent in a lighthouse can change that.

So Ransom sticks to his routine. He wakes, eats, works out, showers, eats again, tries to fill his afternoon with hate-reading academic articles or chores or going into town or desperately not thinking about his old life, makes and eats dinner, and spends the evening writing reviews for articles that will never see the light of day or staring at his inbox or definitely not googling himself before he forces himself to go to sleep with 10mg of Melatonin.

Every day is the same, and it might not be healing but it isn’t hurting, and Ransom can live with that until one day, two weeks in, when it’s too much. Ransom fucks up his routine almost immediately by waking up an hour later than usual. It’s raining, so he works out in his living room and it’s not the same, his heart doesn’t beat so hard it thunders in his ears and he’s so hungry that he eats before he showers, which pushes back his afternoon and by the time he gets out of the shower he doesn’t have enough time to do any of the tasks he’d decided on yesterday. He starts cooking dinner early just to have something to do and eats it early and has far too much time to kill before bed so he pops the cork on the bottle of wine he’d bought to cook with and climbs down the weathered stone step to drink it on his little beach beneath the lighthouse.

It’s not good wine, but he drinks the whole bottle because the day’s a wash anyway. It’s dry, unpleasantly so, clinging to his tongue with an unpleasant, overpowering aftertaste but he swallows it down until his cheeks and fingertips are warm and the sharp anxiety that’s been prickling at the base of his skull for most of the day fades into a dull throbbing. He watches the waves from a large rock tucked to the side of the cove. It’s big enough for him to stretch out on and high enough that the waves don’t touch him. He lays down on his stomach, empty wine bottle by his side, and rests his head on his arm. He dangles his hand over the edge, letting the waves rise and fall underneath his fingertips.

Water soaks into the sleeves of his shirt, and for a moment he thinks a wave has somehow risen up and splashed him but when a sob ricochets through his chest he realizes that he’s crying. He doesn’t even try to stop once he’s started. Everything is too overwhelming, too close and too loud for him to even begin to process, even here. He’d thought coming to the lighthouse would fix him, just a little, but today’s only served to remind him that all his progress can be undone.

Ransom gives himself permission to wallow, just for the night. Tomorrow he’ll start again. Tomorrow he’ll meet his problems head on. Tomorrow he’ll fight to keep himself on track, to work with his anxiety instead of forcing his way through it. But now, tonight, he’ll let himself be drunk and sad.

So he cries, and doesn’t let himself feel an ounce of embarrassment or shame for it. He wraps his arms around himself and sobs. It’s dramatic and a little ridiculous but it feels _good_. Ransom’s hunched over, letting his tears fall into the swirling tide below and he lets himself sit there and cry until he can’t anymore. He takes a few shuddering breaths, collecting himself as much as he can, and when he wipes his sleeve over his eyes and nose he actually feels better. When he stands he’s lighter, somehow, and that might be the alcohol but Ransom swears he floats up the steps and into bed.

The next morning he works his way through each sensation, beginning with the rough crust that’s over his eyes and ending with his stuffed up nose. He scrubs his face and blows his nose before setting out for his run, feet pounding over the grass that covers the cliffs until his legs and lungs are burning. Instead of staring at his inbox he reads one of the books left on the shelf in the tower and calls Shitty while he cooks dinner to invite him and Lardo up for Canadian and American Independence Days. He opens all the windows in the living room to let in the salt and sun and it’s as close to fresh start as he thinks he’ll ever get.

It’s a good day.

After dinner Ransom is curled up on the couch with his book, enjoying the ocean breezes flowing through the open windows when he first hears it. It starts quiet, almost too soft for Ransom to make out, but it’s rich and deep and Ransom realizes that he’s not imagining it at all: someone is singing. Ransom doesn’t recognize the language but he can appreciate the way the minor melody rises and falls and the skillful way the singer glides through complicated runs. He stands by the window, searching for the source, but he doesn’t see anyone. He lingers by the window until the final notes are snatched away by the wind. He applauds, unsure if the singer will even be able to hear, but it’s a beautiful end to a beautiful day. It feels like a sign, somehow, and Ransom’s not exactly sure what it means but when he goes to bed that night he falls asleep moments after his head hits the pillow, and for the first time in months he feels like he’s done something right.

Twenty four hours later, Ransom has read most of his book and he’s contemplating turning in early when he hears it again. He’d opened the windows just like he had the night before but he hadn’t expected a low, melodic hum to drift in along with the briney air.

_I’m walking back to Georgia, and I hope she will take me back. Nothing in my pockets and all I own is upon my back._

Ransom walks to the window again, leaning out in an attempt to find the source of the singing. He can hear each word clearly as it bounces off the water and rocks but it’s too dark to see down to the bottom of his little cove or along the surrounding cliffs.

_But she’s the girl who said she loved me, on that hot, dusty Macon Road. And if she’s still around I’m gonna settled down with that hard loving Georgia girl._

He sits by the window and listens to the song, staring out into the inky blackness he knows is the Atlantic ocean. The stars are coming out, one by one, and Ransom knows a disembodied voice ringing across the water should be frightening, but he doesn’t think this particular voice is capable of scaring anyone. Whoever he is, his voice is warm and calming, settling into Ransom’s bones and smoothing over the anxiety that’s constantly itching under his skin. He lingers after the last note echoes, waiting for another verse, but the only sound is the crashing waves and air rushing through the grass.

The next night, Ransom starts asking questions. It’s a different song than last night’s, one he doesn’t think he’s heard before until the vaguely familiar chorus echoes over the water. He only recognizes it after Google tells him it’s the _Cheers_ theme song and it’s not as haunting or gorgeous as the previous two nights, but the voice sounds like it’s smiling, and Ransom swears he hears laughter between the bridge and the chorus but even though there’s a sliver of moon hanging in the sky it’s still not enough light to see. The voice doesn’t make him anxious, but now, three nights and three songs in, Ransom’s starting to realize the stranger elements of the past few evenings.

As he climbs into bed, the slim moon shining over the dark ocean outside his window, Ransom forces himself to think logically. There are vacation homes and cabins all over the coastline, and while he can’t see any from his lighthouse, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. There are plenty of obscured areas for homes to hide, be it along the cliffs or tucked back in the woods, and that doesn’t even include the possibility of someone on a boat. Sound carries over water, anyway, so the man could be out of eyeshot. Ransom pulls his covers up to his chin and curls on his side, turning his back to the dark water sprawled on the other side of the window. It’s just a man, singing, and he probably has no idea anyone can hear him. It’s nothing to be worried about.

Ransom’s about to head up to bed the next night when a now familiar voice cuts through the pleasant silence he’s cocooned himself in. Listening for the voice has become part of his routine as much as teeth, shower, shave, clothes, water, food but it’s later today than usual.

_Moon river, wider than a mile. I’m crossing you in style someday._

The waxing moon hangs high in the sky, and all of yesterday’s uncertainties slip away.

_Oh, dream maker. You heartbreaker. Wherever you’re goin’ I’m goin’ your way._

Ransom knows, objectively, that the man singing has no idea he’s listening, but the song feels like it’s directed at him, like he’s the only person in the world meant to heart it. It’s a nice thought until he realizes how damn narcissistic it is. He has to be more social.

_Two drifters off to see the world, there’s such a lot of world to see._

Exactly, Ransom thinks. He’s been in his own little corner for too long now. He picks up his notebook as the melody drapes over his shoulders, familiar and warm, and scratches out a quick shopping list. He needs a few things, yes, but more than that he needs to actually talk to another human being.

He finds himself playing “Moon River” the next day when he drives into town. He drops into the supermarket and chats with the cashier before dropping in the town’s little cafe for a cold brew. He wanders through the small shops, coffee in hand, and lingers in each one. He doesn’t actually need anything from the hardware store but he walks in anyway, and picks up a roll of duct tape because it can’t hurt to have it around, right? Dex is manning the register and gives him a small smile when he steps up.

“Been a while,” Dex says, spinning the roll of tape in his hands as he searches for the bar code.

“Yeah, I guess it has,” Ransom agrees, He’s silent for a moment, at a loss after a morning filled with 1000% more human contact than usual, but he finds the words just as Dex finds the barcode. “Hey, are there any houses out by me? Other rentals, or something like that?”

Dex tips his head to the side as he thinks. “Nah, there’s not much else out that way. Developers aren’t allowed to build out on the cliffs - the guy who renovated the lighthouse had to have special permission, I think. It was all anyone talked about a couple summers ago.” He taps a few keys on the ancient register, giving Ransom the employee discount.

“Huh,” Dex reaches for a bag but Ransom waves him off, lifting the canvas tote thrown over his shoulder. “Weird. I’ve been hearing.” He cuts himself off, but Dex looks genuinely interested so he barrels on. “I can hear someone singing every night and I was convinced it was someone in a house I just couldn’t see.”

“Well, that’s because those cliffs are haunted,” Dex says as he plops the tape in Ransom’s waiting palm, voice matter-of-fact. “Everyone who stays in the lighthouse hears it.” Ransom stares at him, mouth hanging open, arm outstretching with the tape held between them until a smile breaks over Dex’ face.

“You’re fucking with me,” Ransom says, and Dex’ smile only grows as he nods. Ransom shakes his head as he tosses the tape into his bag, and he reaches over the counter to shove Dex for good measure.

“I’m sorry,” Dex tries, but he can barely get the words out through his laughter, and Ransom finds himself smiling despite himself.

“I don’t fuck with ghosts, man. They’re not real, but I still don’t mess around.” Ransom says, and Dex raises his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry, I won’t lie about ghosts again,” he promises. Ransom eyes him warily, but takes the hand Dex offers in a solemn handshake. “But seriously,” Dex says, lifting his baseball cap to smooth his hair back. “I haven’t heard anything about any singing. I’ll ask around, though.” He tears Ransom’s receipt out of the clunky printer and pulls a pen from his shirt pocket and scrawls something on the back. “Here’s my number. I’m sure everything is fine, but if you get a weird feeling I’ll come by and check things out. Sometimes kids like to fuck with tourists, but it’s probably someone in a house I don’t know about.”

Ransom takes the receipt, touched by the thoughtful gesture. “Thanks, man. You really don’t have to,” he tries, but Dex waves him off.

“You’ve got me invested, is all,” Dex says, but Ransom doesn’t buy the throwaway explanation for a minute. Later, when the voice rings out over the water Ransom has his phone at the ready. He records the first few bars and immediately sends them to Dex.

_Don’t know much about history, don’t much biology. Don’t know much about a science book, don’t know much about the French I took._

**Me:** [Sound recording, :10]   
**Me:** i’m not hallucinating right you hear this too?  
**Me:** this is ransom btw

_But I do know that I love you, and I know that if you love me too, what a wonderful world this would be._

Ransom lets the words wash over him, leaning his head against the window frame. It takes a full chorus for Dex to respond.

 **Dex:** I figured.  
**Dex:** At least he’s pretty good, right?  
**Me:** true

_But I do know one and one is two, and if this one could be with you, what a wonderful world this would be._

They’re not any closer to solving the mystery, but it’s nice to share the voice with someone, to have a connection to this place outside of the lighthouse. Ransom finds himself humming the chorus as he brushes his teeth. He sleeps deeply, and doesn’t dream. The next day his phone vibrates in his pocket when he’s making dinner. He waits before checking it, convinced it’s just another email he won’t read, but when he finally checks he sees a text from Dex.

 **Dex:** Just talked to a few locals - no one’s heard any singing. Still have a few more folks to ask.  
**Me:** thanks man

Ransom sends his reply before he climbs up the steps, through his bedroom and up to Nursey’s desk. He eats dinner at the top of the lighthouse, watching and waiting. He moves up to the highest point a half hour before the singing usually begins. He’s not sure he’ll be able to hear it up here, but the worry prickling along the back of his neck settles the moment he hears the first notes ring out, a little further away but still as strong and clear as usual.

_Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky, maybe this time he’ll stay. Maybe this time, for the first time, love won’t hurry away._

He starts along the front of the tower, looking over the wooded area that gives way to grass as the cliff rises. He works his way around the top of the lighthouse, swaying this way and that to see if he can hear the voice better either way. The voice rises as the song continues, growing stronger and stronger.

_Everybody loves a winner, so nobody love me. Lady Peaceful, Lady Happy, that’s what I long to be._

Ransom finally works his way around to the back of the lighthouse, the ocean opens up before him in the dying light, and finally, _finally_ , after days of waiting and wondering, Ransom sees him: there’s a man standing in the water by Ransom’s little beach, bare chested and blond haired and all Ransom can think is _what the_ _fuck_. He stares down, watching the man sway as he sings, his whole body moving with the force of the melody, and it doesn’t make sense.

There’s a _man_ standing in the _water_.

Ransom springs into action. He turns back into the lighthouse and thunders down the spiral staircase as fast as he can, dinner plate forgotten on the desk. He sails through his bedroom and the living room and makes it to the front door in record time, slamming it open in his haste.

_It’s gotta happen, happen sometime. Maybe this time I’ll win._

There’s a desperate edge to the voice Ransom’s never heard before, and the belted words echo in Ransom’s chest as he sprints to the stone steps that lead down to the beach. He keeps his eyes firmly on his feet, too afraid of misstepping and tumbling down the cliffside to keep an eye out for the man. He’s out of breath by the time he makes it down to the beach but he charges to the water, scanning the tide for the person he _knows_ he saw from the tower. The man is nowhere to be found. He spins, circling, searching, and a flurry of movement out in the water catches his eye.

It’s a seal perched on one of the rocks that jut out of the water, blue eyes trained on the beach. Ransom pauses, hunching over to catch his breath, and the seal blinks before rolling off the rock and into the water with a soft splash.

Ransom stands on the beach until his breathing evens out and tries to make sense of it all. He walks up the steps and memorizes every detail of what he’s just seen, from the width of the man’s shoulders to the way his voice had trembled on the final chorus, still so beautiful but so much more real than ever before. Ransom collects his little notebook and settles in at the kitchen and writes out a plan, determined to be ready for tomorrow night.

He eats his dinner on the beach the next evening on his big rock, and waits.

For the first time in days, the sun sets without accompaniment.

That’s fine. Even mysterious half-naked men with the voice of an angel take nights off. Ransom sits out on the beach the next night, and the next, venturing out later and staying out longer each time, and the man doesn’t show. He even climbs to the top of the lighthouse the third night, eyes trained down at the beach, but he doesn't hear or see anything.. Ransom’s back at the beach the next night, this time armed with a thermos of coffee and a pile of blankets.

By the sixth day his routine is torn to shreds, and Ransom doesn’t care. He’s bordering on obsession, he knows, but there had been a _man_ on his _beach_ and Ransom has to know who he is. At the very least, he has to hear him sing again because as strange as it had been the voice had also made him feel more centered than he has in months. Tonight is the last night, Ransom promises himself as he refills his thermos with coffee and throws his outdoor blankets over his shoulder for another trip down to the beach. He’ll watch tonight, and if the man doesn’t show then Ransom will let it go. He creates a nest out of the blankets and hunkers down for the night, eyes trained on the water as the moon rises and his eyelids fall, weighed down from the stress of the day.  

Maybe this time he’ll win.

Ransom wakes to the sound of waves gently lapping the rocky shore as he has for the past five days and, just like every other morning, he works his way through each sensation. He’d picked up the habit the first year of his residency after harsh wake ups in the on-call rooms became part of his weekly routine, and ordering his mind before even leaving the bed was the best way to keep himself ready for the tasks at hand. Now, through, instead of a nurse or resident shaking his shoulder or a blaring alarm the first thing Ransom hears is water splashing against his rock. He catalogs an overheated patch of skin that’s taking the brunt of the sun’s rays, one wet sock from his foot falling in the high tide, and at least three rocks digging into his back.

Sky, sea, solid ground. Not a bad wake up call, all in all.

Ransom groans, squeezing his eyes shut when the sun shines bright behind his eyelids, and arches his back in a long stretch. He rolls over, determined not to shock his eyes too harshly, but when he opens them he’s still forced to blink against the bright morning light. Groaning, Ransom buries his face in his hands and scrubs over his eyes. He rolls onto his side, this time stretching his legs and feet, and when he finally looks up Ransom is face to face with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.

Ransom blinks. The eyes blink back. He looks down, quickly taking in a crossed pair of scarred, freckled forearms resting on the edge of the rock, and when he looks up again he sees those eyes and finally takes in the face they belong to: strong jaw, thick eyebrows, big teeth, and wet blonde hair plastered to a lightly freckled forehead.

It might be the late nights, the fruitless search, or maybe just Ransom’s fragile mental state, but when the Strange Wet Man smiles at him he smiles back, the knot of tension that’s lived between his shoulder blades going slack for the first time in months.

“Hi,” The Strange Wet Man says, and he’s suddenly catapulted into full wakefulness because Ransom would know that voice anywhere. He pushes himself to his feet but when he looks down at the man again his thundering heartbeat drowns out the sound of the waves as it roars in his ears.

The Strange Wet Man’s cross arms are resting on the rock, but the rest of him is stretched on the rocky sand. A small wave flows onto the shore, splashing over the man’s lower half, but instead of washing over feet and legs the clear water spills over speckled flippers and a gray tail that catches the morning light in a silvery glow. The wave recedes and another takes its place as Ransom stares down at it in shock, gaze following the water’s sure path. He takes in the tail again, trying to make sense of what’s in front of him, and when he reaches the man’s waist the silver fur ends suddenly. It seems to be tied around the man’s waist, two longer flippers draped over his hips, and when Ransom’s eyes travel upwards he’s met with anatomy he’s intimately familiar with. He takes in the sharp cut of an iliac furrow, gaze shifting up to solid obliques and defined serratus anterior, over pectoralis major, rounded deltoids, trying not to linger on his trapezius, sternocleidomastoid, or platysma, and then he’s back to that strong jaw and those clear blue eyes.

****

**(@gouachemole's phenomenal art!)**

“What,” Ransom gasps, taking a step back. He doesn’t understand. He’s searched for this man for days, waiting out every night and now he’s here, in the flesh, and Ransom _doesn’t understand._ He looks up and down the Strange Wet Man’s body again and again, mind stuttering as he takes in human anatomy meshed with what looks like - is that a seal tail?

“Hello…?” The deep voice draws Ransom back to the Strange Wet Man’s face, and his thick eyebrows are raised in concern.

“What.” Ransom repeats uselessly. He takes a halting step forward, changes his mind halfway through, and then takes another one because his body isn’t understanding that what he’s seeing is completely, totally, insane. “What are. Who…? You’re - what the _fuck_ \- how are?!” Ransom scrubs his hands over his face, trying to make sense of what’s before him. “Why are you here?” He asks, because that’s somehow easier to manage than _Do you actually exist or has my leave of absence turned into a full blown psychotic episode?_

“You tell me, man.” The Strange Wet Man says with a small shrug, muscles jumping beneath his skin. A flash of silver catches Ransom’s eye. There’s a long, curved scar draped over the man’s trapezius muscle. Ransom focuses on the thin, silvery half circle of scar tissue for a long moment, too distracted by the movement to process his cryptic answer.

“I tell - what?” Ransom asks again, and the Strange Wet Man sighs. He tugs at one of the flippers that’s tied around his waist and the tail bunches up before slipping off to reveal a pair of actual, human feet attached to long legs with thick, powerful thighs and holy shit, the Strange Wet Man is now the Strange Naked Wet Man, and Ransom can’t help but stare as he pushes himself to his feet and ties the skin around his waist again to fashion it into a loincloth of sorts.

Ransom lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and absently realizes that the blistering heat on his cheeks isn’t from the morning sun.

“Look,” The Strange Wet Man steps up onto the rock and Jesus Christ, he’s even taller than Ransom, his hands settled on his hips. “ _You_ summoned me. You know, you drop seven tears into the ocean and that sends out like, a kind of homing beacon and I answered the call and now I’m here.” He finishes with another shrug, like he’s just given a whole, entire explanation for the string of impossibilities Ransom has just witnessed.

“I did what now?” Ransom feels his mouth form the words, feels them vibrate on his lips as air passes through his lungs to his mouth but he doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t hear anything, anymore, not the squawking birds or gentle sea or the Strange Wet Man’s reply. It’s all too much, the sun is too bright and his limbs ache and he’s trembling so fiercely he thinks he might actually fall apart. He registers the Strange Wet Man hovering around him but not touching him, hands outstretched but still inches away from Ransom’s burning skin. He feels a burn in his thighs and realizes he’s climbing up the stone steps to the lighthouse and then he registers the cool metal of the doorknob beneath his palm for a moment that stretches on for months or years and suddenly he’s sitting at the kitchen table, somehow up another flight of steps.

Ransom is alone in the kitchen, his overnight supplies spilling over each other in a messy stack on the table. He hears the distant sound of the ocean and a clock ticking on the far wall and realizes, vaguely, that his sock is still wet. He looks down at his feet - he’d taken off his shoes, at some point - and he’s not sure how long he stares down at his wet sock before the steps creak. A pair of human legs (and it’s ridiculous that he has to clarify that the legs are human, or he thinks they’re human at least, because the man they’re attached to has a _very_ human upper body) appear and then the rest of the Strange Wet Man emerges as he walks down the staircase.

He’s still strange, and he’s still a man, but his hair is dry and he’s dressed in a pair of Ransom’s khaki shorts and his white floral button up and _fuck_ , he looks good in Ransom’s clothes. He has the seal skin thrown over his shoulder and he carefully drapes it over a chair when he steps into the kitchen. He smiles at Ransom as he walks past but doesn’t say anything as he rummages through the cabinets until he finds a kettle tucked on one of the top shelves and a box of teabags in the pantry. He hums, his rich, deep voice filling the room as he moves, and it takes Ransom a long moment before he recognizes it as the Golden Girls theme song.

He focuses on the notes, on the rise and fall of the man’s voice, and closes his eyes. He hears a gas burner catch the flame, soft clinks and metallic clanks, and the bubbling gets louder and louder until a brief, shrill whistle cuts through the comfortable silence. Ransom opens his eyes just as the man sits in the chair across from him, the old wood creaking under his weight. He slides a steaming mug across the table, just shy of Ransom’s knuckles.

“Hi,” He says again, just as warmly. “Are you feeling better?” Ransom presses his knuckles to the mug. It’s too hot for comfort, but the burning pain tethers him to the moment. It’s not a dream after all.

“Um, hi.” Ransom says, and the man smiles. Something relaxes in Ransom’s chest, and when he pulls the mug close the steam and comforting herbal scent keeps the tension at bay. “Yes, I think so.” He says, and it’s the truth. He’s still not sure what he’s thinking or feeling or experiencing, but it’s miles better than the mess of panic he’d felt at the beach. Seeing the Strange Man walk around on two legs - fully dressed - had helped.

“Great!” The man says brightly.“I’m Holster. I told you on the beach, but I don’t think you heard me.” He raises his own mug to his lips and takes a long sip of tea, lips curling up in a small smile. Ransom studies his face, eyes lingering on a flash of silvery skin at the man’s temple. It matches the scar on his shoulder - thin and curved at the same rounded angle - and disappears beneath his hairline.

“Holster.” Ransom echoes. It’s a strange name, but it doesn’t feel strange when he says it. It rolls off his tongue like it was meant to be said. “I”m Ransom. Well - Justin. Justin Oluransi. But people call me Ransom.” For the first time since graduating medical school, he doesn’t use the honorific. He’s still got his license, but he’s not much of a doctor anymore.

“Ransom and Holster,” Holster leans back in his chair with a broad grin, eyes bright with laughter. “Kind of a theme there. Feels like we should be in the Wild West and not in a lighthouse.”

“Yeah,” Ransom agrees,  “So you’re. You are a, uh,” He cuts himself off, unsure of how to possibly continue. Holster’s raised his mug to his lips and for the first time Ransom registers the heavy scarring covering his knuckles. They’re different than the scars on his forearms; Ransom’s seen marks like that only once before, when an old boxer had come into the ER for chest pain. The patient had been well into his eighties but the scarring had remained, remnants of his past career. For the scarring to be that extensive Holster must have punched _a lot_ of people, but nothing about him feels dangerous. Holster puts his mug down on the table, cradling the ceramic in his huge hands so gently that the clay doesn’t make a sound when it reaches the wooden table.

“Selkie.” Holster supplies, drawing Ransom’s attention from his hands. “Seal person. Technically in the same category as mermaids, but most people call us selkies.” He shrugs lightly, like what he’s just said is common knowledge. Ransom glances at the seal skin that’s draped over a chair. The light catches on the patches of silver fur.

“Right. So you, like, live in Atlantis and make people crash their boats?” Ransom asks, trying to keep the stories straight. He’d had a folklore unit in the one literature class he took in undergrad, but he’d spent most class periods studying for organic chemistry or sketching hockey plays instead of taking notes.

Holster laughs, deep and rich, but shakes his head. “I said selkie, not siren.”

“Oh, I thought the singing,” Ransom begins, but Holster shakes his head.

“That’s not a selkie thing, just a me thing.” He says, the anchors of his lips lifting in a small smile. He traces his fingertips along the rim of his mug, “I like the cove’s acoustics and I figured it would get you down to the ocean. I didn’t think you’d believe me if I just walked up to the lighthouse.” He lifts one shoulder in a little half-shrug, and it’s - the word that’s ringing through Ransom’s head is _cute._ Ransom doesn’t have time to focus on that, though, when the events of the past week are finally starting to make sense.

“You were the seal I saw last week. That was you.” Holster nods again, this time with a sheepish little smile. “Why didn’t you, uh, shed your skin and talk to me then?” Ransom asks, trying to sort through the information piece by piece.

“Again, I said _selkie_ , not snake. And I wanted to know if you were serious.” Holster explains. Ransom’s not exactly sure what he’s talking about, but Holster continues before he can ask. “Plus, I haven’t been on land since like, 2013, and I wasn’t looking forward to getting my land legs. It’s always so weird to be vertical again.” He pulls a face and shudders.

“So, you can go back and forth between being a seal and being a person, but you’ve been a seal since 2013? Why?” Ransom summarizes, staring intently across the table. Holster’s face grows serious.

“Something terrible happened,” Holster cradles his mug in his huge hands, gravely staring down at his tea.

“What?” Ransom whispers, caught up in the mystery. He’s not even sure if he wants to know, but his curiosity is spiralling out of control.

“NBC cancelled my favorite show.” Holster says, and Ransom takes a full five seconds to process the information before he bursts out laughing. “Hey! It was devastating! _30 Rock_ was the best thing that happened to me and they just cancelled it like some common sitcom! I still haven’t been able to watch the last episode.” Holster protests, but he’s grinning even as he tries to explain himself.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were going to say something serious.” Ransom can barely get the words out through his laughter, and the indignant expression on Holster’s face only sets him off again once he finally manages to catch his breath.

“I am serious!” Holster insists, but he’s smiling, too, and can’t hold in his own laughter after he speaks.

“Dude,” Ransom begins once they’ve finally stopped laughing, but that just makes Holster snort and _that_ starts the cycle over again. Holster’s wiping away tears and Ransom’s pretty sure he’s pulled a muscle when they finally calm down.

“I know, I know.” Holster admits. His cheeks are bright red. He holds up his hands in surrender, acknowledging his own ridiculousness.

And suddenly they’re talking, and it’s easy. Words flow steadily, swirling into tangential eddys and a deep, constant current. Ransom can’t remember ever having a conversation like this with someone he’s just met. Sure, he and Bitty talk like this, he feels this comfortable with Shitty, Lardo, and even Jack. He feels like he’s known Holster for years instead of minutes and for the first time he doesn’t have to worry about someone bringing up his _incident_ because Holster has no way of knowing about it.

“I, uh.” Holster begins, glancing down at his hands as a light blush creeps onto his cheeks. He pauses for the first time in hours, and reaches over to grab the sealskin he’d draped over a chair. He holds it carefully, big hands gently folding it. “I have something for you.” He exhales, gathers himself, and finally looks back up at Ransom. “Hah, uh. Here. If you want it.” He thrusts his arms out, handing the skin over to Ransom.

“Don’t you need it?” Ransom asks. He reaches out to take the skin nevertheless, smoothing his palm over the short silvery hair. It’s heavier than he expected, but then again, he’s never actually held a sealskin in his hands before. It’s surprisingly warm, and when he concentrates Ransom swears it’s vibrating beneath his fingertips, moving with a supernatural energy.

“I want you to have it.” Holster’s voice is strong and sure, but Ransom can see a nervousness settled over his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Ransom says, because Mama Oluransi raised a polite boy, and thank God she did, because the moment he says it the tension floods from Holster’s shoulders. Ransom stands, shaking the skin out as he walks (he’s just imagining the way it glows in the evening light, right?). He hangs it on one of the hooks that line the living room wall, next to his raincoat. It’s more than a little strange, he knows, but he’s not actually sure what else to do with it now that he has it. He fusses with the material, smoothing it out so it isn’t bunched up as it hangs, and when he turns around Holster’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“You’re not going to lock it up?” Holster is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. Maybe he was supposed to keep it folded like a sweater that will distend and stretch if it’s forced to hold up its own weight, but the skin feels much sturdier than that.

“Um. Should I?” Ransom turns back to the skin but it’s still hanging exactly where he’d placed it. He’d almost expected it to transform or begin floating or something else he’s not equipped to handle, seeing as a grown man had emerged from it earlier.

“I mean, most people do.” Holster doesn’t sound any less confused but his voice is matter-of-fact, and Ransom’s not sure how to tell him that he has no idea what most people do with gifted selkie skins. He could just say that, he thinks, but it seems rude, doesn’t it? There aren’t any rules he can follow, no societal or cultural guidelines to help him know precisely what’s kosher and what’s not. He’d felt so comfortable talking to Holster before, but now everything carries a weight he’s not accustomed to.

“I’ll just put it here in case you need it, or something,” He tries. It’s not like he’s going to use it, anyway.

“Oh,” Holster says, voice thick with an emotion Ransom can’t quite name. His eyes are wet, but Ransom pretends not to notice when Holster quickly swipes his hand over his eyes. He just claps one of Holster’s broad shoulders as he walks behind him on his way to the fridge.

“Are you hungry?” He asks. Ransom might not understand any part of what just happened, but it’s been a while since he’s had food and selkies have to eat, too, probably. Ransom’s not actually sure. Holster turns in his chair, eyes red but smile wide.

“Always,” Holster replies, and suddenly it’s easy again. Holster chops and preps while Ransom seasons and cooks and he has no idea how they can talk for hours about absolutely nothing at all but the next thing he knows they’ve washed all the dishes and he’s leading Holster up to his bedroom to show him where to shower.

Ransom realizes, belatedly, as Holster digs through his dresser for something to wear to bed, that it’s objectively strange that this man he’s known for approximately twelve hours and thirty three minutes is spending the night. That’s weird, right? It’s weird that he’s comfortable with Holster using his shower and wearing his clothes.

He’s not quite sure what to make of it.

Ransom sits on the edge of his bed, stomach full and heart rate steady. Usually this time of night he’s trying desperately to wind down enough to fall asleep after another dull evening. Nights are the hardest, they always have been, even when he had his life together. Night brought sleepless hours, long surgeries, the most hopeless cases.

The rhythmic pounding of the water against the shower tiles doesn’t draw Ransom from his thoughts, but a now familiar voice does.

“Thank you for being a friend, traveled down a road and back again,” Holster sings, voice smooth and rich as it bounces off the bathroom walls. “Your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidant.” It sounds nice, it always does, even if Ransom recognizes the song he’s singing as _The Golden Girls_ theme song once he reaches the chorus. Ransom crawls into bed and pulls out his phone. He’s got at least two more verses to learn everything he can about the man in his shower. He drops by his texts first and he’s not quite sure what to tell Dex now that the mystery has been solved.

 **Me:** hey don’t worry about the singing thing  
**Me:** turns out it was a guy camping nearby  
**Me:** he’s chill

It’s only a little lie, but it makes Ransom’s stomach twist nevertheless. Still, he can’t very well say that he’s stumbled upon a mythical creature. His phone vibrates almost instantly.

 **Dex:** Oh, okay. That’s good.  
**Dex:** You sound like Nursey.   
**Me:** you totally miss him don’t you  
**Dex:** Good night.

Ransom grins, and turns to Google. His first search results in hundreds of pictures of wet, naked women with seal skins wrapped around their bodies. Some of them are pretty accurate, he thinks, but that doesn’t tell him anything new other than the fact that selkies are, apparently, somewhat common knowledge.

Ransom rolls onto his side, and turns to Google Scholar. The first results are from a scientists named M. Selkie, but the further he scrolls the more he finds in anthropology and folklore journals. The first few he clicks on don’t seem to be academically sound at all, but finally he stumbles upon “Dugongs and Selkies” by Allan Asbjørn Jøn. It’s interesting enough to hold his attention through the first few pages, and then he finds it. _Among mythic marine mammals,_ Ransom reads, _inherent ‘goodness’ is traditionally attributed to the selkie._ That’s promising, at least. _They are mythic beasts_ (that’s rude, Ransom thinks), _who like the mermaid, are said to have been supernaturally formed from the souls of drowned people._

Ransom drops his phone.

He digs through the blankets, trying to find it again, and frantically scrolls back to the same part of the article. He holds the phone closer to his face, as if that will change the information on the screen, but the passage still reads _formed from the souls of drowned people._

The faucet squeaks its customary shriek when the water is turned off but Holster’s soft singing continues. Ransom attempts to skim the rest of the article but it’s a futile exercise now that he knows there’s apparently a dead man using his bathroom.

Holster steps out in a cloud of steam, skin tinged red in a flush that spreads from his cheeks down to the sharp cut of his hips. He’s wearing a pair of Ransom’s sweatpants and nothing else, and Ransom’s so distracted by the freckles dotting over his chest and shoulders that he doesn’t realize Holster’s climbing into bed with him until he’s tucked beneath the covers. Ransom’s about to do the normal thing and ask why the hell he’s in Ransom’s bed instead one of the perfectly good ones on the bottom floor but then Holster wraps a strong arm around Ransom’s waist. His hand fits perfectly on Ransom’s hip bone when he tugs him closer, and God, it feels so good to be held that Ransom doesn’t have it in him to protest.

Holster’s wet hair is pressed against the back of his neck and Ransom’s already a bit too warm but he settles back against Holster’s chest nevertheless, too tired to talk himself out of it. He’s actually tired, he realizes, the fog of sleep dulling the sharpest corners of his mind.

Ransom wakes to a warm weight on his chest, the distant crashing of the ocean, and a bright blue sky. He catalogues each sensation ( _blueskycrashingwavessoftmattresswarmblanketbreathinginbreathingoutbreathingin)_ , finishing with the low groan Holster makes when he tries to move.

And look - Ransom’s woken up with strangers before. He’s snuck out of stranger’s beds and even his own more times than he can count but it feels different now. Maybe it’s because Holster’s a seal zombie who serenaded him for a week straight, but as Ransom carefully untangles their legs and slips out from beneath Holster’s cheek he knows it’s something else. Ransom works through his routine on autopilot, downing a glass of water before eating breakfast and heading out on his run. A flash of silver catches his eye when he walks down the steps; Holster’s sealskin is still hanging on the hook by his raincoat.

Holster’s in the kitchen when he comes back from his run. He’s stretched out on the couch when Ransom comes back downstairs after his shower. He walks down to the beach with Ransom, skin thrown over his shoulder, and splashes Ransom with his tail as they swim. He cooks dinner and dries the dishes as Ransom washes them. He climbs into bed with Ransom again and  the next morning Ransom wakes to the sea, the sky, and the solid weight of Holster’s arm thrown over his waist. Holster gets up with him this time, and Ransom digs out a second pair of sneakers so they can go running together.

Halfway through the run, with Holster panting beside him as they sprint on the winding trail carved through the dense woods, Ransom realizes that for the first time since that terrible day in February when the operating room walls had closed in around him and every breath felt like shards of glass rattling around his lungs he feels, for lack of a better word, normal.

It’s strange how normal he feels, which Ransom supposes is an oxymoron, but he can’t shaking the feeling of sheer normalcy as they race the last few meters back to the lighthouse. Holster beats him, laughing breathlessly all the way up the steps, and claims first shower. He sings, as he always does, this time something about a rich girl who’s gone too far and relies on her old man’s money, but Ransom takes his time stretching on the bedroom floor and lets Holster’s rich voice wash over him, rising and falling like the waves that constantly crash on the cliffs below.

Slowly but surely, Holster makes his way into every aspect of Ransom’s routine. He’s the first thing he categorizes when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep but now instead of filling his afternoons with reading articles he’ll never respond to Ransom has someone to talk to, and instead of staring at his inbox every night antagonizing over emails he watches one of the movies Holster has on his to-watch list or reads while he watches another one of his beloved sitcoms.

Holster even comes into town with him, vibrating with energy the entire drive in. He lingers in every store, talking to each person for much longer than Ransom usually does. He even wanders into the hardware store and when they walk inside Dex looks up in surprise.

“Hey,” he greets, one eyebrow raising as he looks from Ransom to Holster and back to Ransom again. “This the guy?” He asks, and Ransom nods.

“Dex was trying to help me figure out who was singing,” Ransom explains, and a band of pink settles over Holster’s nose and cheeks. “Dex, Holster, Holster, Dex.” Dex holds out a hand and Holster takes it, and it’s so, so weird to have them meet. It’s less weird the next time they come into town, even less the time after that, and soon it’s just normal.

Weeks turn to a month.

Holster starts showing up in the little things: his scent on Ransom’s sweatshirts, the way he lines up the tv remotes on the coffee table so he can always find them, song lyrics and doodles scribbled in the margins of Ransom’s to-do lists, his sealskin draped over the back of a kitchen chair, wrapped around Ransom’s shoulders on a particularly chilly night at the beach, the glint of silver that catches Ransom’s eye when he cooks dinner for two.

Inevitably, there are growing pains. Holster doesn’t always understand why the routine is necessary. Ransom can’t listen to Holster talk about tv shows he’s never even heard of for hours on end. They figure out how much time they can spend together, how much time they need apart. Holster’s there when the Chief of Medicine from Ransom’s hospital calls and tells him his fellowship is being terminated, and he gets a front row seat to a panic attack that rivals the one that had started this whole mess.

Holster’s there, and he helps. He doesn’t touch Ransom but tucks blankets and pillows around him so he doesn’t get sore from laying on the ground. He keeps close, nudging a water bottle towards Ransom’s elbow. He plays soothing music, lights candles, lets in the sea breeze, draws a bath for Ransom when he can stand and helps him climb the steps with his muscles stiff from being loaded with tension for the past few hours, and best of all, he doesn’t ask any questions. When Ransom stumbles downstairs after his bath Holster just raises his arm and finds a movie on tv for them to watch.

One month turns to two. Ransom’s routine adjusts.

Ransom adjusts.

He stops thinking of Holster as a selkie, as the disembodied voice that calmed his nerves, as someone who makes him feel normal again. Holster is complex, pop culture references wrapped in dry sarcasm, sand tracked across the kitchen floor, boisterous laughter that Ransom can hear even when he’s up at Nursey’s desk at the top of the lighthouse.

Holster is his best friend.

And yeah, most best friends don’t curl up together every night or spend almost every hour of every day together but they do, and it works for them. Ransom’s not sure how they’re managing it, how they’re absolutely thriving, but they are, and it feels so bone-achingly, jaw-droppingly _right_ that he’s not going to question it.

One night, on the second full moon Holster’s spent with him, the bedroom’s huge windows are letting in the white moonlight. Ransom tosses and turns, trying to find a position that shields him from the bright light. He’s rolled over for the fifth time in as many minutes when a deep groan warbles up from the other side of the bed and a heavy arm flops onto his back.

“Dude,” Holster mumbles, voice muffled from the pillow he’s pressed his face into.

“I know,” Ransom rolls again, this time onto his side to face Holster, who kicks him for moving again. “It’s too bright,” he tugs Holster’s pillow from under his head, ignoring his indignant shout, and uses it to shield his eyes from the moonlight.

Holster shoves him and snatches his pillow back, whacking Ransom with it before tucking it under his head. He stretches out on his stomach, bare shoulders and back illuminated by the silvery light. Ransom studies him for a long moment, taking in his light hair, the shape of his bicep and the musculature of his back, gaze settling on the long, thin scar that curves over his left shoulder.

“Where’d you get these?” Ransom asks, reaching out to tap his finger on the art of the scar before reaching up to brush his thumb over the same silver line that juts out from beneath his hairline. One of Holster’s eyes opens, clear and blue and bright as the water crashing on the rocks outside. He’s quiet for a long moment. Ransom opens his hand and smooths his palm over the scar tissue, waiting.

“I think I,” Holster begins, pausing to turn his head so his words aren’t muffled by the pillow. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I want to remember.” He admits, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a wan smile. “It feels, kind of, sandpapery? When I think about it? A part of me knows that whatever it was, it wasn’t, uh, good.” Holster’s voice is soft, just loud enough for Ransom to hear over the distant crashing of the waves.

“I’m sorry,” Ransom says, but Holster just lifts his scarred shoulder in a little shrug. They lay there, Ransom’s hand on Holster’s back, the moonlight bearing down on them, and it’s soft and warm but not soft or warm enough for Ransom to fall asleep. He pulls the duvet over their heads, trying to block out the light, but it’s too hot and humid so he pushes it back down a few minutes later. Holster shifts suddenly, pushing himself up.

The moonlight catches on the smaller scars that dance up how forearms, jagged lines probably caused from broken glass of Ransom recognizes the pattern correctly. Holster untangles himself from the blankets to pad across the bedroom and down the steps. His head appears at the base of the stairs  just a moment later, and the silver from the sealskin thrown over his shoulder catches the light. He climbs back in bed and throws the skin over their heads to out the moonlight. The material almost thrums, vibrating gently, and to Ransom’s surprise it stays pleasantly cool. They curl on their sides, facing each other, and even though the skin is protecting them from the bright moonlight it’s shimmering, just a little, but Ransom’s not sure if that’s the skin itself or his tired eyes.

They lay there, the skin draped over their heads and shoulders, and from the even sound of Holster’s breathing Ransom’s sure he’s fallen asleep. “I used to be a surgeon,” Ransom whispers, the words rustling over the sheets as they make their way over to Holster, who’s apparently awake. He shuffles closer until his head is resting on Ransom’s pillow, their foreheads almost pressed together.

“I don’t even know what I used to be,” Holster whispers back. His hand follows the path his words made, fingertips curling over Ransom’s ear and jaw before slipping down to settle on his ribs. “Why aren’t you a surgeon anymore?”

“Why aren't you whatever you used to be anymore?” Ransom shoots back, because he can, and he can just make out the curve of Holster’s lips in the dim light. He smiles, just for a moment.

“I’m not really sure,” he admits, and his fingertips press into Ransom’s skin when he pauses. “I guess I died.”

“Me, too,” Ransom murmurs, because most days that feels like the truth. His life is divided into _before_ and _after_ , just like Holster’s, but he remembers every single detail. Still, even under the sealskin, it doesn’t feel fair to compare. Holster actually died, his life ended, and Ransom’s just been camped out on his friend’s couch and in a lighthouse for the past few months. He rolls onto his back, shame rising deep in his stomach to lap at the back of his throat, bitter and hot.

Holster moves with him, wrapping a strong arm over Ransom’s waist and pressing close, his forehead resting against Ransom’s ear, and somehow the weight and warmth of him loosens Ransom’s tongue. The next thing he knows he’s talking about that terrible day, working his way through the surgery piece by piece, hour by hour, until he’d had to step away because his hands had been shaking and his vision had gone white and every piece of his carefully constructed world had crumbled before him. Holster is quiet, his breath puffing over Ransom’s neck and his hand wrapped around Ransom’s hip. Ransom finishes, voice hitching and tenuous as he sifts through the final pieces of wreckage of the events that brought him here.

Holster’s silent for a long moment. His hand moves, drifting from Ransom’s hip to settle over his chest before he speaks. “Your heart’s still beating. Let it.”

“Is that from a song?” Ransom asks, and he feels Holster’s laughter as much as he hears it.

“Nah, that’s all me. Just advice from one dead guy to another.” Holster slips his arm around Ransom’s chest to pull him closer and Ransom moves willingly to tuck his head under Holster’s chin.

The next morning they sleep in, exhausted from the late night, and Ransom’s heart doesn’t race when he realizes he’s ruined his routine. He does what he can (sunskyseaHolster, teethshowershaveclotheswaterfood) and doesn’t do what he cannot and despite the rough start, it’s a good day.

The next day is good, and the next, and the next, and Holster’s there every step of the way. On a gorgeous evening in the middle of June Ransom’s thrown open all the windows and puts on a hockey game, one of the last games from the Stanley Cup Finals he hadn’t been able to watch earlier in the month. Holster wanders downstairs, fresh from the shower, and flops down on the couch beside him.

“What’s up?” He asks, stretching out to rest his head on the pillow tucked under Ransom’s arm.

“Just watching the playoffs.” He says, tapping on the remote to bring the volume down as Holster settles against his side.

“Oh, hockey. I used to play, I think.” Holster’s brow is furrowed as he stares up at the screen, head tilting to the side as he takes in the swirling patterns the skaters make as they glide across the ice. “I was a d-man? That sounds right.”

“Bro, of course we played the same position.” Ransom raises a hand and Holster slaps it, the crack of a perfect high five ringing through the living room. Holster’s quiet, watching the game with a critical eye until the puck goes out of play.

“I guess helmets really took off,” he says mildly, and Ransom looks down at him in surprise.

“You didn’t wear one?” He asks, trying to imagine a level or organization that would let anyone play without a helmet.

“Nope. Kinda thought it was just a fad, actually, and - Jesus, is that the goalie?” Holster sits up, pushing himself with a hand on Ransom’s leg as he takes in the goaltender, who’s tracking the puck expertly.

“Yeah?”

“He looks like a fucking tank!” Holster leans in, as if getting just a little closer to the tv will make the goalie smaller, but he just shakes his head in astonishment. Ransom looks between the screen and Holster’s face, gaze bouncing back and forth, mind spinning as he tries to understand why Holster’s so surprised.

“When did you play? Gear like that has been the standard for decades. How do you not know about helmets but you can talk about the plot inconsistencies in FRIENDS even when I beg you not to?” Ransom asks, and Holster reaches out to shove him without taking his eyes off the screen.

“I’ve said it once and I’ll says it again, if they don’t respect their own canon there’s no reason I have to,” Holster begins, and it’s so _him_ Ransom almost forgets how strange the gaps in his knowledge are. “And I told you, I came ashore at least every five years or so to catch up on my shows and yeah, things would be different but I could still keep up with major events.” Holster explains, finally looking back at Ransom, who just shakes his head to show him how unhelpful that explanation was. “Look. When most selkies come ashore they try to find people from their life before. They go back to their hometowns or track down grandchildren. But I don’t know who I was or what I did. I remember small things, but just because I know I grew up in Buffalo doesn’t mean I remember my family or the street I lived on. I remember playing hockey but I can’t remember what color uniform I wore.” Holster’s words are matter-of-fact, and Ransom’s not sure how he can keep his voice so even when he’s talking about something so sad.

“Do you think you’ll ever remember?” Ransom asks, awkwardly stringing the words together.

“I don’t know. But I remember more when I’m with you.” Holster’s eyes dart up to meet his, a flash of blue, the sea between the billowing curtains when the living room windows are open in the late afternoon. “When you ask me questions I actually know the answers. I don’t know how or why, but I do.” He shrugs, slightly, and when he smiles warmth floods Ransom’s chest.

“Let’s try it.” Ransom suggests. He turns down the sound on the tv, moving the pillows he’s resting on sit cross-legged on the couch, facing Holster. His friend watches him, thick eyebrows raising.

“What, now?” Holster asks, eyes darting between the television and Ransom’s face. Ransom nods, resolved.

“Yeah. We have a hypothesis, and we have to test it.” He explains as Holster moves the blankets and pillows he’s resting on to mirror Ransom’s position. “When’s your birthday?” Ransom asks, and Holster’s eyes light up with recognition.

“June 20th!” He grins, almost vibrating with excitement.

“That’s coming up,” Ransom matches Holster’s smile. “What year?” He tries, and Holster’s brow furrows for just a moment before he answers.

“1948,” he says, voice sure despite the shocking answer.

“Holy fuck,” Ransom murmurs, and it would be beyond belief if he hasn’t spent the past few months watching Holster transform into a seal and back again almost every day. “When did you die?” He asks softly, with a wince.

“I told you, I don’t,” Holster begins, face falling, but Ransom reaches out and takes both his hands, rubbing his thumbs of Holster’s scarred knuckles.

“Don’t think, just answer,” He instructs softly. “It’s okay if you don’t know.” Holster’s eyes meet his, and Ransom’s lips arc into what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Holster nods, mouth setting in a grim line as he resolves himself. “Ask me again.”

“Holster,” Ransom begins slowly, watching as his friend inhales deeply, holds it, and lets it go. “When did you die?”

“1976. Something - something happened. Something big. A holiday, or celebration, or something? I don’t know. But it was ‘76, in the summer.” Holster’s hands and voice are shaking, delicate and tenuous. His wide eyes dart around the room but finally settle on Ransom’s face. He looks devastated, and Ransom lets go of his hands to pull him close with an arm wrapped around his trembling shoulders.

“Hey, hey, come here. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed.” Ransom cards his fingers through Holster’s thick hair, trying to soothe him. His fingertips linger on the raised scar tissue, tracing the curved line over his skull.

Holster’s hair brushes his chin and neck when he shakes his head. “No, I’m glad you did. It’s better to know.” He says, voice muffled by Ransom’s shoulder, but he just tips them backwards so they’re laying down and he’s properly holding Holster. The room grows quiet, only the distant sounds from the hockey rink settling over the room.

“I can’t believe you lived back before player safety and electricity were invented,” Ransom says suddenly, and cool relief floods through him when Holster’s sides shake with a soft, huffed chuckle.

“Fuck off,” Holster mumbles into his chest, but when he tries to glare at Ransom he can’t help but smile.

“Did you have zambonis, or did you just strap a broom to a horse and carriage?” Ransom chirps, and this time Holster laughs for real, loud and joyous despite himself.

“Oh, we had zambonis, but we had to push them ourselves. Horses hadn’t been domesticated yet.” There’s a wry smile on Holster’s face as he replies. He shifts, moving in Ransom’s arms as he searches for a more comfortable position.

“But seriously, how are you so normal?” Ransom asks, and Holster’s shoulders jump up beneath his hands when he shrugs. He hums a quick up-down-up interval.

“People weren’t so different, you know.” Holster says, and Ransom’s not sure that’s true, because Holster is the most extraordinary person he’s ever met.

He holds Holster until the game ends, letting the familiar scraping and clacking lull them into a comfortable silence. He sweeps his palm over Holster’s broad shoulders until the last of the tension fades away and Holster’s fully relaxed against him. His legs fall asleep sometime in the second period and Holster tucks himself between Ransom’s side and the couch cushions during the third but they’re in constant contact until the game ends. They pull apart to get ready for bed but Holster drifts back to his side once the lights are out, curling around Ransom once again.

Instead of waking to the sea, sky, and warmth of Holster’s body pressed against his, Ransom wakes to darkness and a strangled gasp. Holster’s curled on his side, shaking and thrashing in his sleep and his name barely leaves Ransom’s lips before his blue eyes snap open. He’s unnaturally still for a moment, eyes clouded with fear, before he’s moving again.

Holster’s trembling as he pushes himself up, swinging his legs around so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He cradles his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, the bright moonlight illuminating his pale skin. He’s beautiful, blonde hair turned almost white in the moonlight with shadows cascading down his spine. The long, curved scar on his neck and left shoulder almost seems to glow, a new moon cast in silver as it stretches over his shifting muscles and skin.

“Holster,” Ransom whispers, crawling over the bunched-up covers to kneel just behind his friend. “Would it be okay if I touched you?” Ransom asks, only placing a hand on Holster’s shoulder when he receives a tiny nod of affirmation. Holster’s shaking hand cards though his short blonde hair, sweeping down to curl over his shoulder, fingertips brushing the curved scar. His fingers dig into his skin before smoothing over the raised tissue. “Did you remember something?” Ransom murmurs. Holster nods, releasing a shaky breath. “What was it?”

Holster throws a glance over his shoulders, blue eyes so clear in the bright moonlight. “Drowning,” he says, and Ransom’s skin grows cold, the lingering warmth from the blankets whisked away by the terrifying realization. He’s not sure how long they stay there, Holster sitting on the edge of the bed with Ransom behind him, but it takes a long time for Holster to turn back around. He presses his face against Ransom’s chest and Ransom drapes his arms over Holster’s broad shoulders before tugging him back down.

Ransom doesn’t believe in coincidences. He believes in patterns, in evidence, in answers. He watches the stars arc across the inky black sky, Holster’s head resting on his chest. He combs his fingers through Holster’s thick hair until his breathing evens out, but Ransom holds him close long after he falls asleep. Holster doesn’t stir again. Ransom listens to his breathing, feels Holster’s chest expand with every inhale, and holds the day’s events in his mind as carefully as he’s holding Holster, tracing his fingertips over them to memorize every detail.

Holster had remembered more today than ever before. He’d brought up specific dates, recalled small details. Ransom doesn’t believe for one minute that the nightmare and the memories just happened to occur on the same day. Holster’s memory is coming back, and for the first time in months Ransom is faced with uncertainty. He pulls Holster closer and closes his eyes, determined to get at least a few hours of sleep (he counts the bumps of each vertebrae that arc over Holster’s back, smooths his palm over his ribs and finally dozes off just after Holster hums in his sleep, the vibrations echoing in Ransom’s chest).

Holster stays close the next few weeks, orbiting around Ransom as he sticks to their carefully constructed routine. He’s a warm hand on the back of Ransom’s neck as he checks his emails, the smell of coffee and french toast that wakes Ransom in the morning. He’s panting breaths by Ransom’s side as they run and splashing waves as he swims circles around him, fins brushing against Ransom’s legs. They celebrate his birthday on the beach, stretched out on the sand with a little cake Ransom had made with a recipe Bitty had sent him. Every day he remembers more. He tells Ransom about a goal he’d scored for a team he still can’t recall, eyes sparkling as he exaggerates the details of his ensuing celly. He blushes delicate pink spots high on his cheeks when he tells the story of his first kiss with a girl from Temple at her Bat Mitzvah. He cooks his way through a recipe he knows by heart and Ransom pretends not to notice when the first bite makes his voice thick and eyes wet. Every night the nightmares return.

Ransom learns to listen for his gasping breaths and wakes him when he cannot wake himself, holds him when he slams into awareness and murmurs _you’re okay, I’ve got you,_ until his breathing evens out again.

The nights take their toll. Holster falls asleep almost immediately when they drive into town a few weeks after the first nightmare, fingers still loosely linked with Ransom’s across the gear shift. He traces circles over Holster’s knuckles with his thumb, memorizing the raised bumps of scar tissue and the weight of his broad palm. When Ransom glances over during a red light Holster’s head is tipped back, chest steadily rising and falling, stubble covering his cheeks and neck. He’s snoring, just a little, and the rumbly sound is more soothing than the playlist Ransom usually puts on for the drive so he listens to the rhythm of his friend’s breathing

It occurs to him, somewhere around the halfway point between the town and the lighthouse, that he hasn’t been counting Holster’s breaths. Months ago he’d have done it automatically but now he doesn’t feel the need to; he trusts that Holster’s next breath is coming. Holster shifts in his sleep, dipping towards the door until his forehead connects with the window with a soft _thump_. He jerks up, disoriented, but Ransom sweeps his thumb over the back of Holster’s hand and shushes him.

“Go back to sleep,” Ransom says before Holster can ask. Holster hums, and Ransom swears it sounds like waves crashing over the rocky shore.

He waits as long as possible before waking Holster again, taking another few minutes in the car to plan out their shopping route and double checking their budget. He scans the grocery list he’d carefully written out in his little notebook one last time, awkwardly using his left hand to draw stars by eggs and milk because Holster goes through an inordinate amount of both over the course of two weeks, and scrawls _white person shampoo_ at the very bottom of his list.

They’re halfway through the grocery list by the time Holster fully wakes up. He shuffles alongside the cart with his fingers hooked into the metal, yawning and stretching as Ransom works his way through the aisles. It’s 10am on a Thursday so the store is almost empty and Holster only knocks over a few cereal boxes with his ridiculously long arms when he stretches his deltoids.

“Nice of you to join us,” Ransom quips when Holster’s finally aware enough to pluck a box of cereal off the shelves and drop it in the cart. Holster levels a truly impressive eye roll his way and sways over to bump their shoulders together. Ransom pretends to fall over, dramatically grabbing onto the cart for support as Holster laughs. There are bags under his eyes and his five o’clock shadow is more of an eleven o’clock shadow, but he still manages to look carefree and joyful.

Ransom reaches out to snag Holster’s hand; it’s automatic now, coded into Ransom’s DNA and muscle memory after two months of almost constant contact but he grabs a handful of air instead of the familiar warmth of Holster’s callused skin. The hand Ransom had reached for is wrapped around the cart handle instead of where he’d anticipated. Strange.

He tries again, later, when they’re standing in line behind a woman with a cart full of an environmentally irresponsible amount of bottled water. Ransom slips his arm around Holster’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder the way he does when he’s waiting for Holster to finish cooking or reading or watching a vine compilation and start paying attention to him. Instead of leaning against him or curling his arm around Ransom like he usually does Holster stands up straight so Ransom’s chin slips off his shoulder and takes a step away.

That’s never happened before.

Ransom tries a third time, after they’ve loaded the groceries in the car and are on their way to the only coffee shop in town. He grabs Holster’s hand, holding it firmly, only for Holster to snatch it away. He shoves his hands in his pockets and puts more space between them. He doesn’t hold the door open or crowd against Ransom when they’re in line or waiting for their drinks.

Ransom watches Holster from across the table, idly tracing his fingers over the paper sleeve wrapped around his coffee cup. Holster’s tense, shoulders bunched with nervous energy, hands clasped tightly together in his lap. His eyes dart up whenever the bell on the shop’s door dings, narrow and suspicious as he intently studies whoever walks through the threshold. His gaze is constantly roaming around the shop, lingering on the exits and the other patrons.

Ransom tilts his head to the side, chin cradled in his palm, and slowly extends his leg until his ankle brushes against Holster’s calf. Holster’s gaze snaps back to him, wide and worried and so unlike the person Ransom has come to know in the past month - no wait, Holster’s been in his life for three months and Ransom’s hardly even noticed the time going by; he’s had ninety days of swapping clothes, of another set of footsteps echoing on the steps behind him, of dinners for two, of broad smiles and flushed cheeks and strong arms wrapped around him every night, of the closest, most rewarding friendship he’s ever been a part of - but now Holster’s steady gaze is wild and fearful and instead of a lingering touch he snatches his leg away and crosses his arms tight over his chest, fingers digging into his thick biceps.

He looks unsettled, like he’s trying to make himself smaller, and Ransom has never, ever seen him like this before.

“Holster,” Ransom whispers as he slips into the chair next to his friend. “Talk to me. What’s up?” Holster’s still, and Ransom’s struck by how strange it is to see him so quiet and contained. He’s usually humming, tapping his feet, jiggling his leg if he’s not sprawled out taking up as much space as humanly possible.

“It’s not safe,” Holster mutters, so quiet Ransom almost can’t pick out the words from the gentle cacophony of the coffee shop. Ice rattles in plastic cups, spoons clink against ceramic mugs, steam hisses from the espresso machine, but Holster is silent.

“What’s not?” Ransom asks, truly puzzled. He’s never felt physically unsafe in this town before, and he can’t imagine why Holster would have cause to be afraid. Holster’s eyes roam over the room like a caged animal, stalking the same path over and over in search of an exit.

“We can’t be like we are at home, when it’s just us. I don’t want anything to happen.” Holster’s voice is low, tinged with fear and exhaustion. Something like understanding blossoms in Ransom’s chest, growing wild and unrestrained as the puzzle pieces settle into place.

First: Holster is responding negatively to physical contact for the first time in their friendship. Second: This change only occurred while in public. Third: They haven’t fought, Holster wasn’t in a bad mood earlier in the day, so he’s not pulling away for interpersonal reasons. It has to do with being physical with Ransom in public and somehow thinking there might be negative consequences if he is.

Ransom’s stomach twists unpleasantly as he comes to his conclusion: Holster’s worried someone in this town will take offense to a white man and a black man peacefully coexisting, and he doesn’t want Ransom to get hurt.

It’s so easy to forget that Holster’s from a different time. Ransom’s own parents don’t understand what he’s talking about half the time but Holster, who’s even older than they are by a few decades, is always on the same page (he’d added _fre sha vaca do_ to last week’s grocery list and regularly points to the seagulls that gather on their little beach and says _look at all those chickens_ , lisp and all). Despite his cultural fluency, though, there are still gaps in his knowledge and now he’s on edge while they’re just sitting in a coffee shop.

Ransom wasn’t prepared to talk about race relations in the United States today, but it seems like it’s fallen to him to explain everything that’s happened since Holster died. He’ll have to call Nursey later because for all the time he’s spent in this country Ransom’s still a Canadian, and as much as things are different they’re still the same and _fuck_ , he wasn’t ready to talk about this today. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out.

“Holster,” Ransom begins, quickly structuring a timeline of important events in his mind. Holster looks up from his lap to meet his gaze. “It’s not 1970 anymore. Things are different now.”

“Not for people like us,” Holster says, and the wandering vines of the hypothesis that’s climbing over Ransom’s ribs suddenly withers and dies. If it’s not about race, what is it about? He studies Holster’s face, racking his brain for anything else that might explain Holster’s change in behavior.

 _People like us._ Ransom repeats the phrase, turning it over in his mind to study the structure, the syllables, and suddenly, everything slips into place.

“You mean - are you gay?” Ransom asks, and it’s not the most graceful way to handle the subject but the words spill from his mouth before he can rearrange them into a more gentle question.

“Well, yeah,” Holster says immediately, looking at Ransom like he’s surprised he even has to ask. He pauses, then shakes his head, brow furrowing as he tries to sort through his thoughts. “I mean, no. Not really? Something in between? I’m not one or the other but I’m not _not_ one or the other?” The words tumble over each other as they leave Holster’s mouth.

“You’re bisexual?” Ransom supplies, and he smiles after Holster’s head dips down in a quick nod. “I am, too,” He says, hoping it’ll comfort him, but Holster doesn’t seem surprised even though Ransom’s sure this is the first time it’s come up.

“I know, but do other people know? About you? In general?” Holster layers his questions on top of each other in a tottering tower. Ransom can only assume he’s asking if he’s out, so he nods. Holster looks shocked. “And you’re safe?” He asks immediately, leaning forward in concern.

“Yeah. It’s complicated, and it depends on where you are, but things aren’t as bad as they were when you. When you were. Around.” Ransom explains, unsure of how to dive into the nuances of such a vast subject. He can’t imagine how Holster must be feeling, how his whole worldview is shifting.

“When I was _around_ ,” Holster echoes, raising one thick eyebrow quizzically even as the anchors of his lips drift up in a small smile.  

“I don’t know how to say it!” Ransom explains, and Holster’s shoulders shake in quiet laughter. He’s tempted to leave it there until they’re back home and he can explain things more clearly, but then Holster’s smile fades and he glances around the small shop once more, and Ransom doesn’t want him to be afraid when he doesn’t have to be. Not here, at least.  “Do you trust me?” Ransom asks. His heart jumps in his chest when Holster nods immediately, head dipping in a nod before the words have left his mouth.

Ransom keeps his gaze locked with Holster’s, lips lifting in a small, reassuring smile as he slowly slides his hand over the table. Holster’s gaze darts down but his eyes, clear and blue as the shallow waves that lap over their ankles when they sit together on their little beach, settle on Ransom’s face until his fingertips brush against Holster’s pinky. Tension floods Holster’s large frame and he scans the room once, twice, three times, and looks back in Ransom in shock when no one else in the small coffee shop notices. Ransom sweeps his thumb over Holster’s scarred knuckles until the tension drips away drop by drop, condensation on the outside of a glass on a hot summer’s day. When Ransom tangles their fingers together Holster gasps, a small, shaky thing, but he only scans the room one more time before a small smile appears on his face.

“Wow,” Holster murmurs, gazing down at their joined hands. He opens his mouth, about to speak again, when the barista ambles past with a broom in his hand. Their hands are resting on top of the table in full view. Holster freezes and the way his fingertips dig into Ransom’s skin is just this side of painful but Ransom keeps his hand relaxed. Holster’s perfectly still, not even daring to breathe until the barista is back on the other side of the shop.

“See?” Ransom says as he settles his free hand over Holster’s to rub some of the tension away. It’s another long moment before Holster breathes again but when he exhales he slumps back in his seat, exhausted from the ordeal.

“It’s really okay?” Holster’s voice is trembling, and Ransom can’t imagine how he must be feeling. He stands, pulling Holster up, and leads him out of the shop, their hands still joined. There are tears on Holster’s cheeks by the time they make it to the car and when Ransom pulls him in for a hug he pretends not to notice the water soaking through his shirt.

The drive to the lighthouse is quiet. When they pull up to the lighthouse there are two familiar figures sitting on the hood of a car. Ransom pulls up beside them and jumps out, barely remembering to put the car in park.  
  
“Shits! Lards!” Ransom calls once he’s opened his car door. He yanks the key from the ignition and jumps out just before Shitty almost barrels him over.   
  
“Ransom! Come here you gorgeous Canadian motherfucker!” Shitty’s voice echoes off the rocks and cliffs below as he wraps Ransom up in a tight hug.   
  
“I can’t breathe, Shits,” Ransom gasps, clinging to his friend even as he fights for breath. Shitty just pats the back of his head.   
  
“You don’t need air; the power of friendship will keep you alive. You’re a doctor, you should know that.” He explains, tilting back in an attempt to lift Ransom off the ground. It doesn’t really work because of the height difference but Ransom has to applaud his effort. He would, if there was enough oxygen in his brain to effectively command his limbs.   
  
“You’re a - oh, right, I always forget.” Holster says from somewhere behind him, and Ransom barely manages to twist out of Shitty’s grasp in order to introduce everyone.   
  
“Lardo, Shitty, this is Holster.” He says, words rushing over each other as he uses the last of his air to speak. He sucks in a deep breath, then continues. “Holster, this is Larissa and hey! Don’t hit me! These are two of my best friends, Shitty and Lardo.” He’s told Holster about them before, and he sees recognition dawn in Holster’s eyes before Shitty pulls him in for a hug.   
  
“Is Holster a nickname?” Lardo asks even as she wraps her arms around Ransom’s torso, resting her forehead on his chest as she speaks to Holster.

“I don’t know, actually.” Holster says, awkwardly patting Shitty on the back. “It sounds like a nickname, right?” He muses, and Shitty looks up from the hug with a confused expression on his face as Lardo pulls back, one eyebrow raised. Right. They don’t know about the whole selkie situation.   
  
“We have a lot to catch you up on.” Ransom says, shuffling his keys to unlock the lighthouse door.   
  
“So,” Shitty says slowly, hands steepled on the kitchen table as he processes the information they’ve just unloaded on him. He’s taking it pretty well, Ransom thinks. “Let me get this straight. You,” he gestures to Holster’s who’s currently padding over the kitchen floor in seal form. “A human being, died in 1976 and you’ve been a seal for the past forty years because you don’t remember anything from your human life but you came here because Ransom summoned you by dropping exactly seven tears in the ocean and somehow, someway, 30 Rock plays a role in all this mythical nonsense.” Ransom nods as Holster’s skin slips off, revealing his human form. He stands and hands the skin to Lardo, who drapes it over the kitchen table.   
  
“It’s not really that complicated,” Lardo cuts in as she studies the pattern of the silver and gray spots dapples over the skin. “Human, selkie, lighthouse living.” Shitty slumps back in his seat and rakes his hand through his hair.   
  
“Do you need to see the transformation again?” Ransom asks as Holster stands, ready to go. Shitty just shakes his head and buried his face in his hands.   
  
“No, it’s. I believe that part. You just - you look like, fuck. Fuck.” Shitty’s voice is muffled from his hands but the words still ring through the kitchen. Holster’s eyes light up.   
  
“Do I look like someone you know?” He asks, sitting down next to Lardo. Shitty’s hands slip down his face. He studies Holster for a long moment, green eyes tracing over his face. Silence hangs over the kitchen, interrupted by the crashing waves down below.   
  
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t want to get your hopes up, because I’m not sure.” Shitty says, and Holster’s expression settles back into something more neutral. Ransom reaches across the table to take his hand, squeezing it gently. “When will Jack get here?” Shitty asks, question directed Lardo even though his gaze is directed at their joined hands. Holster’s shoulders tense up, just enough for Ransom to notice, before he removes his hand from underneath Ransom’s.   
  
“Any minute now.” Lardo replies, still examining the skin. She’s flipped it over, fingers tracing over the edge of a fin.   
  
“Shits, what do you know?” Ransom asks, but Shitty just shakes his head. He pulls out his phone, tapping it a few times before signing in frustration.   
  
“Fuck, don’t you have service out here?” He asks, the words coming faster than before. His mustache twitches.   
  
“It comes and it goes. Shitty, you’re freaking us the fuck out, man.” Ransom can see the worry etched into Holster’s brow, his downturned lips. This is supposed to be a fun visit, a lighthearted week spent with his best friends. Now it’s turned into something else, something they’re both not prepared for.   
  
“Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s - nothing’s wrong. I just have a hunch but Jack will know. I’m probably wrong.” Shitty looks apologetic but he just holds up his phone, searching for service until the doorbell rings, signalling Bitty and Jack’s arrival. Shitty’s jumped up and sprinted down the steps before Ransom can get up from his seat. He stands anyway, takes a step, stops, and looks around the room. Lardo carefully folds the seal skin and hands it back to Holster. His blue eyes flicker up to meet Ransom’s, and Holster gives him a small, reassuring smile. Ransom’s not sure how he can possibly be the one reassuring Ransom instead of the other way around, but he just smile-winces in return. Holster laughs, quietly, and Lardo places her hand on Ransom’s arm as she passes by, calm and collected as ever.

“Keep breathing, brah.” She murmurs, and it takes Ransom back to college when she would crawl under the table in the library with him, when she called him after every big test in med school, when she always picked up the phone during his intern year no matter how late or often he called her.

“Keep reminding me,” Ransom replies, and Lardo grins up at him. Shitty’s back up the steps before she can say anything else, two familiar faces behind him, and the room erupts in a gentle chaos. There’s high fives and long hugs and Jack somehow manages to make them all laugh with a lame chirp and Bitty heads straight for the kitchen, already concerned that Ransom doesn’t have enough food. Ransom reaches out, convinced he’ll catch some part of Holster so he can introduce him, but his hand falls through the air instead of landing on his friend. When he turns Holster’s on the other side of the room, watching them with a small, sad smile on his face, and there are a million things Ransom may never know about him but he’s absolutely certain that Holster belongs with them. He reaches out, hand grasping the air until Holster makes his way over. He winds an arm around Ransom’s back, settling against his side, and only after he’s wrapped his arm around Holster’s waist does he realize that his friends are staring at them. He opens his mouth, about to introduce everyone, when Holster beats him to it.

“Hi, I’m - “ He begins, arm extended for a handshake, but Jack interrupts him before he can finish.

“You’re Adam Birkholtz, but that’s not possible.” Jack’s eyes are narrowed in an expression Ransom’s seen a thousand times before, but only ever directed at the opposing team. It’s Jack’s face off face, the one he wears when he’s analyzing his opponent’s defense for weak spots or just before he bursts into action during a shoot off. It’s unnerving, being on the other side of that calculating stare.  

“I fucking knew it!” Shitty crows somewhere behind Jack. Ransom’s not exactly sure where, too focused on Holster’s wide eyes and shocked expression to track him down. His mouth is hanging open, brow slightly furrowed, pink spots high on his cheeks, his hand still awkwardly extended in front of him.

“I’m sorry, what?” Holster asks. His voice, usually so strong and sure, is trembling. Each syllable is delicate sea foam, balanced precariously over churning waves before it melts away. Jack is, somehow, not the most awkward one in the room. He sidesteps Holster to grab the tv remote, flipping through the multimedia settings until he pulls up Youtube.

“I _knew_ he knew how to do that,” Bitty mutters. Holster starts at the sound of his voice, dropping his hand as he finally gathers himself enough to close his mouth. His blush grows, settling over the bridge of his nose. Bitty says something else but Ransom can’t process his words when Holster turns to look at him. In all the time they’ve spent together Ransom’s never seen him like this before. Holster’s usually in constant movement, bouncing his knee or tapping his fingers to a rhythm only he can hear. He rises and falls like the tide, still in place but always flowing. Now, though, he’s unnaturally still. His eyes, wide and afraid, dart up to meet Ransom’s . He takes one of Holster’s hands in both of his, mouth open to say _something_ , anything, because Holster is a lot of things but speechless is never one of them, but before he can speak he hears Holster’s familiar booming laughter echo throughout the room, even though Holster’s standing right in front of him, silent. They both turn in perfect unison, and Holster squeezes Ransom’s hand so tightly he’s worried he’s broken something.

Holster’s on his tv screen. He looks younger than he does now, his hair longer and his jaw less sharp, but it’s him, with his big smile and bright blue eyes. The quality is fuzzy and Holster’s face and bare shoulders fill the screen. The long, curved scar that curls over Holster’s shoulder and back is gone but his cheeks are stained the same red as when he runs with Ransom. A disembodied hand holds a silver microphone up to his mouth and an offscreen voice fills the living room.

“Adam, you had a big game and a big goal. Can you walk us through that game-winner?” The voice asks. The on-screen Holster grins.

“You know me, man. I only play big games.” On-screen Holster laughs and combs his fingers through his wet hair, pushing it back off his forehead. The scar on his temple is gone as well. “But really, you know, it’s always a team effort. Danny - that’s Dan Freeman - did the hard work of digging the puck out of the corner. I just had to slam it in. We’d talked on the bench about the way their wingers tend to fan out so I just went where he told me to go, and. Well, slap shots are my only move so that’s what I did. It’s all down to Dan, really.” He lifts one shoulder in a familiar half-shrug Ransom’s seen a hundred times.

“I think you had a little more to do with it than that,” the interviewer says, and Holster smiles, bright and brilliant as ever. “Can we expect more big things from you throughout the rest of the series?” Beside him, the real Holster’s eyes are wide and shocked while the on-screen Holster huffs out a laugh.

“I’ll see what I can do,” He promises, leveling a cheeky wink at the camera. The image on the screen shifts to the Bruins facing off against a team wearing uniforms Ransom knows he’s seen before but can’t quite place and an off-screen announcer describes the events of the evening’s game. The camera zooms in on one player and Ransom recognizes the set of Holster’s brow and his strong profile immediately as he sprints across the ice to chase down a wayward puck, deftly snags it, and slams it into the goal.

“That’s me,” Holster’s voice is soft, full of awe as the teammates on the screen gather around him. A smaller player who has FREEMAN written across his shoulders launches himself into Holster’s arms and Holster holds him close, spinning him around in a joyous celebration. “Ransom, that’s _me_.”

The video ends abruptly and the screens shifts back to the search menu. Jack scrolls past the next few videos (titled _Birkholtz Fight Compilation, every single birkholtz knockout, Adam Birkholtz Best Fights!!!_ , and _ADAM BIRKHOLTZ: BEST ENFORCER?_ respectively _)_ and chooses one called _Kansas City Scouts vs Quebec City Eagles, 1975_. The quality is fuzzy but Ransom’s eyes find Holster immediately among the skaters swooping over the ice as they warm up.

“You’re Adam Birkholtz, but everyone called you Holster,” Jack says, finally turning away from the tv to face Holster, who’s gripping the back of the couch with his free hand, knuckles white against the dark fabric. Jack barrels on. “You disappeared after winning the 1976 Stanley Cup.”

“You won the Stanley fucking Cup?” Ransom’s speaking before he can stop himself, because it’s one thing to live with a mythical creature for three months but it’s another thing entirely to learn that he’s also, apparently, a legendary hockey player. Holster tugs his hand free to scrub his hands over his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes for a moment before quickly raking his fingers through his hair. He looks exhausted, a weariness Ransom’s never seen before draped over his shoulders.

“No,” Holster begins, and Ransom can see Jack open his mouth to protest in the corner of his eye. Holster rolls his shoulders back and looks at Ransom, gaze steady. “I won two,” he says, and something in his voice is different. _Everything_ is different. Holster looks around the room, taking in the people he’s just met who seem to know more about him than he does, finally settling his gaze on Jack. “Holy fuck, I’m Adam Birkholtz.” He says, and the tide that’s gathered around him suddenly breaks, water rushing back towards the sea.

“How are you alive?” Jack asks just as Holster grips the back of the couch again for support, and Lardo steps in suddenly as Ransom wraps an arm around Holster’s back.

“I’ll take this one, brahs,” She says as she sweeps past them to explain the situation to Jack and Bitty. Ransom can vaguely hear her to-the-point explanation, relaying it almost exactly like he’d relayed it to her, and Ransom guides Holster to sit at the kitchen table. There’s not much he can say, but he sits with Holster as he processes everything that’s just happened, holding his hand as he tries to sort through the memories flooding his system.

Shitty appears by Ransom’s elbow, the sealskin held in his hands, and when Ransom and Holster look up the room is looking at them expectantly.

“Uh, right. Yeah. Okay.” Holster stands, taking the skin on autopilot, and wraps it around himself right in the middle of the living room. Moments later there’s a familiar seal padding across the kitchen floor, and the entire situation is absurd. It’s ridiculous.

“Well,” Jack says, head tilted to the side as he takes in the scene before him. He’s calm, completely composed, and Ransom’s never been more grateful for his quiet strength. “That’ll do it.” The seal shifts, skin wrinkling, and then Holster’s standing where the seal used to be, the silvery skin draped over his shoulders.

“Ransom, please tell me you have butter,” Bitty bustles past them to open the fridge, and the silence that’s fallen over the room breaks. Soon the scent of cinnamon and sugar waft through the room and the lighthouse is filled with sound and energy as they gather around the kitchen table.

“How did you recognize me?” Holster asks Jack, eyes wide as he watches himself on the tv screen. Jack opens his mouth, about to answer, when Shitty glides in. He drapes himself over Jack’s shoulders before answer.

“Oh, Bad Bob’s a big fan,” Shitty says, nonchalant, like that’s supposed to make any sense. Ransom kicks Jack’s chair beneath the table, prompting him to explain.

“My dad.” Jack says succinctly. It takes another kick to his chair for him to continue. Bitty sweeps past them in a cloud of flour, depositing steaming pieces of pie in front of them. Jack tilts his head up and Bitty presses a kiss along his angular cheekbone as he moves past, almost second nature. “He grew up in Quebec City before the Eagles franchise shut down. He might actually have some answers for you.” Jack explains, and Ransom recognizes the light that sparks in Holster’s eyes before he can reply.

“Where is he?” Holster asks. He’s leaning forward, thick arms bracketed on the table with the pie before him. He’s excited; Ransom can’t imagine how it must feel to suddenly have a name and a past and a whole _life_ when he’s spent the last few decades with a nickname and a sealskin.

“Montreal. It’s just a few hours away…” Jack trails off, glancing around the room, and Ransom feels the energy shift. The waves pull back from the shore; Ransom knows a tsunami is coming.

“Thank fuck we brought our passports,” Lardo says, and it’s decided.

Between the six of them it doesn’t take long to formulate a plan of attack, and after Bitty and Jack set out the next morning Ransom stands on the rocky beach, staring out at the sea. He can’t quite make out where the water meets the sky. The waves rise up to lap at the thick blanket of fog that’s settled over the horizon. Ransom smooths his palm over the short hair covering Holster’s seal skin, trying not to project the anxiety that’s buzzing just under his skin.

“You don’t need anything else?” Ransom asks for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time Holster shakes his head with an easy confidence Ransom will never understand. Holster’s calmly folding the thin t-shirt he’d worn during breakfast and the walk down to the beach, and when the bunched material is vaguely square-ish he sets it down carefully on the shoes he’d already taken off.  

“I’ll be fine! It’ll take me two days, max.” A warm hand settles on Ransom’s shoulder and he finally tears his gaze away from the wall of fog looming before him. Holster’s smiling, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on Ransom’s shoulder, and it’s almost enough to ease the worry swirling around deep in the pit of Ransom’s stomach.

Almost.

Holster pulls him in for a hug and Ransom presses his forehead against his warm skin. It almost feels like they’re curled around each other in the middle of the night. Ransom takes a deep breath, and lets it go. His lips brush against Holster’s collarbone.

“You sure we can’t just stuff you in the trunk of my car?” Ransom asks, and he feels Holster’s laughter as much as he hears it. There’s a soft pressure against his temple; Ransom swears it feels like a kiss but Holster’s speaking before he can question it too much.

“Oddly enough, they don’t give passports out to mythical creatures, and I don’t think border control would let someone who’s technically been dead for forty years into the country.” Holster jokes, and Ransom hits him weakly before pulling back. “I’ll see you in a few days,” Holster promises, voice low and warm. He gives Ransom’s shoulder another squeeze before he steps back.

“You’d better,” Ransom says, swallowing hard against the emotions rising in his throat. They’ve been through this routine enough by now that trading Holster’s shorts for his sealskin isn’t nearly as weird as it used to be, but watching him walk away and not being able to follow is unfamiliar and strange. It’s horrible, no matter how striking Holster looks as he wades into deeper and deeper water until he finally dives into the waves. Moments later a familiar seal tail splashes through the deep green water in a quick wave goodbye.

Ransom stares out at the ocean for a little while longer for any lingering signs of his friend but Holster is long gone by now. Ransom collects his clothes, the only proof that he was even here, and trudges back up to the lighthouse.

Shitty and Lardo have the car packed by the time Ransom makes it to the top of the cliff and they climb in the car wordlessly once he locks the front door behind them. Lardo’s behind the wheel, Shitty in shotgun beside her, and Ransom stares out the back window as they drive away, almost certain he’ll see a familiar set of broad shoulders or flash of blonde hair in one of the lighthouse windows or running along the cliff.

Shitty puts on music. He messes with the air conditioner, the seat heater, any button that can be toggled. Lardo stares staunchly ahead, only moving to change lanes or remove Shitty’s wandering hand from the volume knob.

“So,” Lardo says suddenly, eyes flashing up to meet Ransom’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “You’re in love with Holster.” She doesn’t even have the decency to pose it as a question.

“I - _what?_ I’m not in - I don’t - Why would you even say that?” Ransom sputters as Lardo flips on her turn signal and drifts into the left lane, smooth as can be.

“Probably because you’re totally in love with him, brah.” Shitty supplies helpfully. Ransom kicks the back of his seat. He’d do the same to Lardo, but she’s driving and he doesn’t want to die.

“I’m _not._ I’ve only known him three months.” Ransom reasons. He tugs on the seatbelt that’s suddenly too tight around his neck and chest, trying to get just another centimeter of space so he can _breathe._ Shitty turns in his seat with his lawyer face on.

“Fact: time is a construct and is irrelevant in matters of the heart.” Shitty barrels on even when Ransom groans and buries his face in his hands, because he’s not in the mood to discuss whether or not time is real right now. “Fact: you let him move in ten seconds after meeting him.”

“I thought time was irrelevant.” Ransom shoots back, scrubbing his hands over his eyes.

“Fact!” Shitty shouts, undaunted by Ransom’s counterargument. “You’ve spent every minute of the past three months with him and you’re not sick of each other.” Ransom opens his mouth to speak but closes it once he realizes he can’t actually argue with that. “Fact,” Shitty says again, voice suddenly soft. He reaches back and takes Ransom’s hand, awkwardly stretched across the backseat. “You’re happier than I’ve seen you in years, Rans. That’s a big deal.”

Ransom glances up to catch Lardo’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She raises her eyebrow, as if she’s saying _He’s ridiculous, but you know he’s right._ Ransom sighs and squeezes Shitty’s hand, because yes, he’s ridiculous but  Ransom knows he loves his friends fiercely.

“You’re right,” Ransom agrees. “But we’re just friends. Good friends - really good friends, but just friends.” It doesn't seem like the right way to describe them, but Ransom's not sure how else to phrase it. He doesn't want to say best-friend-who-shares-a-bed-with-me-but-we-aren't- _sleeping_ -together. Shitty scoffs, but turns back around.

“Fine. If you’re not in love you won’t mind me playing this, then.” He taps on his phone and a familiar melody cuts through the air. 

_Every night in my dreams, I see you, I feel you. That is how I know you go on._

Ransom rolls his eyes but settles back in his seat, crossing his arms defiantly. “Turn it up," he challenges, and Shitty does. 

Shitty plays love songs for the next hour and half, until Lardo’s finally had enough and has him put on a podcast. If Ransom thinks about Holster during “My Heart Will Go On,” well, that’s just because he’s heard him sing it about a hundred times (the fact that he prefers Holster’s over dramatic version complete with impeccable air-penny-whistling, well, that’s just because it’s objectively hilarious).

Holster’s three days late.

* * *

 

**Before heading on to Part 2, here's @sexydexynurse's incredible fiber art!**

    

 

 


	2. But I'm Not Giving Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you again to my beta, @thatjutsu (ao3) for being so incredibly encouraging throughout this whole process. 
> 
> The official playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/43LeczxgSdGKzvT5k16PlQ

Holster is three days late. 

They’ve been camped out on Iles de Boucherville, sleeping on the exact spot they’d shown Holster on the map, and he’s late. They’ve taken turns sitting out on the rocky shore in case he shows up early in the morning or late at night but no one has seen him. 

He’s late, and Ransom thinks he’s going to lose it all over again. He tries to follow his routine as best he can but the only thing to do is  _ wait _ , and it’s the waiting that’s slowly turning Ransom’s hands into a broken weathervane, trembling and creaking even at the gentlest breeze. 

Ransom pulls the sleeves of his sweatshirts over his hands, balling the soft fabric between his fingers. It’s early, the sun still hovering over the horizon. Another end to another sleepless night. A small burst of relief bubbles in Ransom’s stomach. It’s easier to wait in the daytime. At night he’s convinced every rustle or splash is Holster but now he can see with his own eyes that it’s just the wind or gravity. Everything can be explained during the day, but at night he sees Holster trapped in a fisherman’s net or bleeding out into the water after a shark attack. 

Behind him the gravel rustles and clacks together; Ransom recognizes the sound of footsteps immediately. He’s come to know each and every detail of this beach intimately, from the sound of the rocks knocking together to the patterns the tree’s shadows cast on the water. A pair of neon sneakers come into his peripheral vision. 

“No sign?” Jack asks. His voice settles over Ransom’s shoulders the way his hockey pads used to, a familiar, protective weight. Ransom shakes his head but scooches over to make room on his blanket and Jack settles down beside him. Jack’s silence has never been so comforting. Ransom leans over, just a centimeter, and Jack’s shoulder sways over to meet him. He’s warm, even in his t-shirt and shorts, and doesn’t say a word when Ransom settles more of his weight against his side. 

Bitty comes next with a thermos of coffee. He fills one of Ransom’s hands with a mug and holds the other between both of his, smoothing down the sharpest edges of Ransom’s worry with a calming stream of words like rocks worn down by a constant current at the bottom of a river. He talks about his family, how his Aunt Judy is considering changing her jam recipe for the first time in twenty five years, starts planning the different types of bread he’ll bake for Jack’s pregame PB&J once the season starts in a few months. 

“It’s never too early to start planning bread.” Bitty says, as if it’s common knowledge. “Galettes? Sure, throw em’ together anytime. Cheesecakes? Two weeks is enough. But bread - there’s so much to take into account, isn’t there?” Jack hums in acknowledgement, the water splashes against the shore, and Ransom nods. “Thank you! Timeline and ingredient prep aside, you have to make sure the weather cooperates otherwise the flour will act out just to spite you.” He continues, speaking until Lardo and Shitty amble over. Shitty deposits himself in Jack’s lap and Lardo steals Ransom’s coffee mug out of his hand. The conversation turns to Shitty’s retelling of the drama between the two partners at his law firm, Lardo interjecting every now and then to correct or exaggerate a detail as Bitty laughs and Jack chirps in the form of leading questions.

When Ransom closes his eyes it almost feels like they’re sitting in the Haus Reading Room, young and dumb and  _ together _ . 

Water splashes, just different enough from the small waves for Ransom to open his eyes. He straightens up, scanning the water for any sign when a sudden ripple cuts through the mouth of the small inlet. His friends fall silent, waiting. 

A slick, dark head pops out from the clear blue water, followed by a rounded back and familiar tail that sends water flying when it splashes back under the surface. Ransom is standing before he can even register getting up and the ripples make a beeline for the shore, only to stop suddenly three meters away. 

Wind rustles through the trees, a cool hand pressing against the back of Ransom’s neck. He breathes in, holds it. What if he’d imagined it? He’s been staring at this water for days and he’s been up for over twenty four hours, maybe his brain has finally given in and is showing him exactly what he desperately wants to see. What if it’s not him? It can’t be him, it’s not, why - why did Holster have to be  _ late? _ He’s spent five days without Holster and suddenly the thought of waiting another second longer is too terrible to entertain. 

_ So, you’re in love with Holster.  _ Lardo’s words rush through his chest, breaking over his carefully constructed barrier, a tidal wave strong enough to knock him off his feet. 

_ Of course I am, _ he thinks, because how could he not be? The water recedes, only to return in a smaller rush again and again, waves crashing over the shore. 

The realization sends Ransom reeling. He takes a half step back and a strangled breath in, and before he form any thought other than  _ I’m in love with Holster I’m’ in love with Holster I’m in love with Holster I love him I love him I love him -  _ a familiar head of blonde hair and broad shoulders burst from the water, sending drops of water flying. Ransom swears Holster’s moving in slow motion as he moves through the water, walking steadily until the water is down from his bare chest to his knees. His seal skin is tied around his waist, water cascading down his panting chest. Holster pushes his wet hair back and beams at him, cheeks flushed pink from exertion. 

Ransom takes two steps into the water and throws his arms around Holster’s shoulders, pressing his face against his wet skin. He swears he can hear Holster’s heartbeat thundering in his chest when he wraps his arms around Ransom’s waist and pulls him close. Water seeps into Ransom’s clothes but he just holds Holster tighter, the tension and fear and worry from the past few days flooding out of him. Holster’s steady against him, warm and real. 

God, Ransom loves him. 

“Holy Baywatch, Batman.” Shitty says, somewhere behind them. Right. There are other people here. Ransom pulls back, trying to ignore how Holster’s hands settle at his waist for just a moment before he steps back onto the shore. Holster follows and when Ransom turns his friends are staring at them. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Holster wipes a hand over his face. “Got lost up by Nova Scotia and took a wrong turn by Anticosi Island.” He explains breathlessly. 

“Well. Who hasn’t?” Jack says, completely deadpan. Holster laughs as he wrings water from one of the flippers tied around his waist. Bitty pulls a tupperware of pie from thin air and Holster’s eaten almost the whole thing by the time they make it back to the campsite. Ransom set clothes aside for him days ago and they change in the tent, awkwardly hunched over as they dry themselves off. 

For the first time in months, Ransom has no idea what to say to Holster. It’s usually so easy - it’s always been easy - but now something’s fundamentally changed. Everything is different, and Holster has no idea. He pulls on his clothes slowly, exhausted from his journey, and throws a half smile over his shoulder when he walks out of the tent. He’s wearing one of Ransom’s sweatshirts and the sight of him makes Ransom want to pull him close again and never, ever let him go. 

He needs a minute. It’s all too much, too fast, and Ransom’s heart beats faster and faster when he needs it to slow down. He crouches, arms wrapped around his body, squeezing himself much too tight but the dull pain from his fingertips digging into his skin is centering. He drags his hand up to his neck and presses two fingers against his pulse point, counting his heartbeats. He focuses on the number, on the data, until his pulse slows to a reasonable speed. 

When Ransom steps out of the tent the camp is almost packed up. Holster’s sitting with another tupperware of pie in his hands. Shitty and Lardo immediately begin to take the tent down and Ransom snags a perfect piece of crust from the container as Jack sits down beside Holster. 

“How were the tides?” Jack asks just after Holster’s taken another bite - it’s classic Jack timing. “I read that the Bay of Fundy is difficult to navigate.” Something deep in Ransom’s stomach twists, small and warm and grateful that Jack cares enough about Holster to research the obstacles he’d face on his journey. 

Jack and Holster talk quietly about tidal patterns until everything is packed and ready to go. Jack and Bitty take one car while Ransom and Holster ride with Shitty and Lardo. Holster falls asleep almost immediately, slumped against the window with the hood of Ransom’s sweatshirt pulled down over his eyes. He’d done same thing last week when they’d driven into town and Ransom realizes it’s only been six days since the little world they’d built for themselves was upended.

The car is silent for most of the drive, interrupted only by the sound of Holster’s soft snoring. Ransom’s grateful; he desperately needs the time to process the days’ events even though it’s only 9am. He almost doesn’t notice when they pull into the driveway of Jack’s childhood home a few hours later. It’s huge, because of course it is, and the house in front of them isn’t even attached to the private rink Ransom knows is somewhere out back. Ransom’s been here before, just once, when they ambushed Jack on his birthday. He’d been in medical school and had spent most of the weekend underneath the coffee table with his flashcards on the central nervous system - ironic, considering he’d been the central nervous wreck of the party. 

Today, though, Ransom’s determined not to crawl under any furniture. 

Holster wakes to Ransom’s hand on his shoulder and an ache in his neck. He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to wake up. Ransom’s thumb rubs soothing circles into his shoulder as the noise outside the car builds. He can hear laughter and greetings through the window and when he finally rubs the sleep from his eyes he sees a man who looks like an older version of Jack lifting Bitty clear off the ground in a big hug. There’s another woman who’s hugging Shitty, and when she glances at the car he sees Jack’s eyes staring back at him. They must be Jack’s parents, and the mansion behind them must be his childhood home. 

“Ready?” Ransom murmurs, and when Holster looks at him everything outside the car fades away. It’s almost like being back at the lighthouse, tucked under the sealskin in bed.

“Yeah,” Holster says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “‘Course I am.” It’s a bold declaration and an even bolder lie, but Ransom just squeezes his shoulder and climbs out of the car. It feels incredible to stretch his legs; he’s so relieved to be standing that he almost doesn’t notice the two strangers staring at him. 

“Holy shit,” Jack’s father says, and the woman reaches out to bat him on the shoulder as she turns. 

“Bob, language - holy  _ shit. _ ” Jack’s mother echoes, blue eyes wide. Holster’s not sure what to do. He takes a halting step towards them, then a smaller step backwards. Everyone is staring at him. 

“Jack, tell me this is one of your frighteningly elaborate pranks.” Bob’s face is pale but his gaze is intense, boring straight into Holster’s forehead. Jack stands beside his father, arms crossed, brow furrowed in confusion. 

“I don’t do frighteningly elaborate pranks?” Jack says slowly, looking over at his father in concern. 

“I know, I was hoping you started,” Bob sighs. Holster glances at Ransom, who gives him a little nod as if to say,  _ go ahead. _

“Hi, I’m Holster,” he says, taking another step towards Jack’s parents. He offers his hand and Bob takes it in a much too firm grip.

“Yeah, you are,” Bob says, staring up at Holster in awe as he shakes his hand. He doesn’t let go for a long moment, holding on far longer than necessary. He only lets go after Jack clears his throat, but he doesn’t take his eyes of Holster for a second as they walk into the house. Jack’s mother - her name is Alicia, Holster learns - stares at him with the same astonishment. 

Jack tackles the explanation this time, laying out the information clearly and concisely as Bitty takes over the kitchen. The scent of brownies wafts through the house as Holster settles the sealskin over his shoulders and transforms right in the middle of their living room (the first few seconds as a seal are always jarring as his bones settle into their new configuration and he adjusts to seeing the world from a completely different angle and Holster’s been a seal for the majority of the past few decades but being on in the middle of a living room will always be strange. He can feel the hardwood floor beneath his fins and he’s staring at everyone’s knees and it feels familiar yet foreign at the same time; like he’s surrounded by people speaking a dialect of a language he’s so close to understanding). He feels a warm pressure on the back of his head that he immediately registers as Ransom’s hand and when he transforms back Ransom steadies him as he adjusts to standing on two legs again. 

All in all, Bob and Alicia takes the news pretty well. 

Well, Alicia does. Bob keeps reaching out to poke Holster to make sure he’s real and tries to wake himself up several times, convinced he’s having a realistic dream. It takes burning the roof of his mouth on a brownie for him to accept that he’s awake, and Jack and Ransom start fielding questions when Holster feels a warm hand on his arm. He turns to see Alicia standing there with a small smile. She guides him to the other side of the kitchen and the next thing he knows he’s sitting on a tall stool with a mug of tea in front of him. 

“Bob grew up in Quebec City.” Alicia says as she rummages around the fridge for a carton of milk. She sets it in front of his mug and a small vial of honey quickly follows. “The Eagles were his home team, and you were his favorite player.” She explains as Holster mixes milk and honey into his tea. Bitty bustles past with a bowl of flour in his hands, Shitty hot on his tail with his arms full of butter. 

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around it,” Holster admits, idly stirring his tea. Alicia waits, smoothing out the sealskin draped over the marble countertop. “I have all these memories now but they don’t feel like they belong to me.” He raises the mug to his lips and takes a long sip. The tea warms him from the inside out, comforting and familiar, but when when the warmth fades a deep ache settles in its place. He feels hollowed out, a long forgotten tree that’s rotted through but is somehow still standing. “There’s so much I don’t know about him. Me. Whoever.” Holster says into his tea. The words ripple over the milky surface. “I know more than I did, but not enough to  _ be _ him.”

“I think,” Alicia begins, drawing Holster’s attention from the dark expanse that’s appeared between his ribs. “It’ll be confusing to reconcile who you were with the person you’ve been, and I don’t think you should feel guilty for changing. You don’t have to be the person you remember.” She reaches out to pat Holster’s hand and the emptiness shrinks, just a little. 

“Holtzy,” Ransom calls from across the kitchen. “Bob wants to show you something in the office.” Alicia gives Holster a small, reassuring smile and hands him the sealskin. He drapes it over his shoulder; the familiar warmth settles into his skin. They follow Bob down a long hallway and file into a dark room. 

Bob flicks on the lights. Office is a loose interpretation of what the room really is. Sure, there’s a desk, but one of the open drawers is filled with pucks and there’s not a pen or paper in sight. The walls are covered in hockey memorabilia, from framed jerseys and signed photos to shelves filled with helmets and goaltender masks. Every surface is filled with trophies and awards. Holster spots an Emmy tucked in the corner, a silver Olympic medal draped over the outstretched hands of the gilded figure. It’s more of a shrine than anything else, and Holster sees his own face over and over, on roster photos and autographed hockey cards; even his jersey hangs on the wall. 

Bob turns to face them, cheeks lit up in a bright red blush, and he smiles sheepishly. “So,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the paraphernalia packed wall behind him. “This is the office, also known as the only place Alicia says I can put all the hockey stuff.”

“In my defense,” Alicia says as the group fans out, brushing past Holster to stand by Bob’s side. “It’s a  _ lot _ of stuff.” She plucks a frame off the wall and hands it to Ransom. It’s a faded newspaper article, the headline “HOCKEY STAR DISAPPEARS WITH PRIZE DURING STANLEY CUP CELEBRATION ON PARTY BOAT” in bold type across the yellowed paper. Bob hands a surprisingly heavy frame to Holster, containing a black and white candid taken in a locker room. Holster’s shirtless, still wearing his hockey pants, with his arm draped over a smaller man’s shoulders. They’re laughing, faces lit up in big smiles. 

_ A bright flash of white light blinds Adam for just a moment but the smile doesn’t fade from his face even as he waves off the photographer’s apologies. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the white spots from his vision, and there’s a pair of hands on him but he doesn’t feel afraid. He leans into the touch as the spots fade and a familiar face beams up at him.  _

_ “You good?” Danny asks, hand settled on Adam’s waist to steady him as he regains his vision. Warmth pools in Adam’s chest. He pulls him close; they fit together perfectly, Danny’s face pressed into his neck and his hand cradling the back of his head.  _

_ “The best,” Adam mumbles, and he feels Danny’s laughter deep in his chest.  _

Holster traces his fingers over the glass, delicately outlining the smaller man’s smiling face. His name is Danny, and when Holster remembers his name that same warmth rises in his chest, just under his sternum, and he doesn’t know what it means but he knows it’s important. He’s missing something, some huge, life changing detail, but he can’t - he doesn’t - why can’t he  _ remember _ ?

Shitty’s voice anchors him to the present. “Here’s what I don’t get. How does a hockey star even become a selkie?” Shitty asks, peering over Ransom’s shoulder to read the newspaper article. Holster feels the weight of seven pairs of eyes on him, boring into him from all directions. 

“The same way everybody does, I guess,” Holster says. A glance around the room reveals that particular take helped absolutely nobody. He sighs, tearing his eyes away from the smiling faces in the picture to drag his gaze around the crown molding as he attempts to get his thoughts in order.  “Selkies are made, not born. There are all kinds of myths about the actual process but the truth is that no one really knows how, or why, or anything about how people are chosen. Every selkie I know drowned, and every single one has some kind of unfinished business or an unresolved life. But then again, not dying of natural causes kind of does that automatically.” He shrugs, waving a hand to punctuate his points. 

“So you’re ghosts. But in the water.” Lardo says, because of course she can synthesize hundreds of years of folklore into just a few words. Holster points at her; she points back as if to say  _ I got you. _

“So what’s your unfinished business?” Bitty pipes up from across the room. He’s holding a stack of books for Jack, unwavering as Jack piles on dusty texts and scrapbooks. 

“That’s the thing, he doesn’t remember,” Ransom says. Holster knows exactly where he is without having to look, and when he turns anyway Ransom is standing right beside him, precisely where Holster knew he’d be. 

“What happens if you finish your business?” Shitty asks, and his tone is surprisingly serious despite the word choice. Holster tilts his head to the side, considering. 

“There’s a formal review process but I’m not exactly sure how it works,” Holster explains and a few scattered laughs pipe up around around room. He looks around, one thick eyebrow raised. “I’m serious, there’s a whole bureaucracy, a high council, a court system. Selkies have been around a long time. I was just intentionally antisocial because, ugh,  _ people. _ ” A shiver works its way up his spine. He catches Jack nodding out of the corner of his eye. He gets it. 

“So, how did you die?” Lardo asks from her perch on the desk, dragging them back on topic with a swift maneuver. She has a scrapbook open in her lap and is thumbing through the pages of cut out newspaper articles and pictures of men wearing the Quebec City Eagles uniform. 

“I remember being in the water, but before that it’s shaky.” Holster says, and when he looks back down at the picture in his hands he feels suddenly distant, leagues away from the little office. It’s easier to remember this way, when the sharp edges are dulled so he doesn’t accidentally cut himself on the jagged fragments. “I was on a boat, I know that, and I fell down, I think? Probably hit my head. Something was wrong with my hands, I remember not understanding why I couldn’t grab anything. Then I was up, somehow, even though I know couldn’t stand because I remember trying but I kept falling, and then I fell into the water. Current dragged me down and then, well.” The room is silent for a moment before Alicia breaks it gently with a soft question.

“Do you know why you were on the boat in the first place?” She asks, and Holster finally drags his attention away from the photograph to look at her. It’s like breaking through the surface of the water after a long dive; the air burns his lungs but it’s a good ache. He swallows before answering. 

“It was our second Cup celebration. I remember the game. Gridlock for the first two periods, until we let one in at the bottom of the second. I got an assist in the third and Danny won the game a few seconds into overtime.” Bob nods along as Holster speaks, confirming the details. 

“When the boat docked the next day you and the Cup had disappeared. You were declared dead but your body was never found,” Jack chimes in as he and Shitty carefully wrestle one of the large frames to the ground.

“That’s because I’m still using it.” Holster replies, because it’s true. He catches understanding dawning on the faces surrounding him. “Did they find the Cup?” Bob nods and holds his hands out for the scrapbook Lardo’s holding. She hands it over and he flips through the pages until he lands on one particular article. 

“Yes, in one of the lifeboats. Daniel Freeman bought the boat a few months after and found the Cup hidden beneath a pile of tarps.” Bob explains as he hands the scrapbook over to Ransom, who holds it up so Holster can read the stark headline: STANLEY CUP FOUND IN PARTY BOAT: Body of Hockey Star Still Missing. Holster’s still skimming through the article when Ransom speaks.

“Why would the Commissioner of the NHL buy a party boat?” He asks, and Holster can almost imagine how he’s laying out the evidence in his mind, organizing it carefully. Not for the first time, Holster’s in awe of just how fucking  _ smart _ Ransom is. 

“He wasn’t the Commissioner yet,” Bob begins, but Holster’s speaking before he can finish, the words falling from his mouth before he can stop them.

“We played together,” he says softly, turning the picture he’s still holding around so the group can see. He feels bare, stripped down and vulnerable, and Holster has no idea why. The picture feels precious and when Ransom leans in to look at it Holster’s stomach twists unpleasantly. 

“You were his enforcer. That’s how you got those hands.” Bob nods at Holster’ scarred knuckles and the moment the words are released they settle over Holster’s skin and sink down to his bones. He aches as the memories crash through him. His hands are bloodied, his cheekbones feel the weight of punch after punch, his eyes swell up and bruises bloom beneath his skin, scattered over his ribs and chest like flowers cascading from a blooming tree. 

“But why’d he buy the boat?” Ransom asks again and Holster’s thrust back to the present, the pain fading away, twisting in a cyclone as it empties down the drain. Holster hands the picture over to Jack, eager to be rid of it. Jack studies it intently as Shitty attempts to peer over his shoulder and Bitty crowds in by his elbow.

“Nostalgia, I think? It’s mentioned in an article.” Bob waves at the book Ransom’s still holding. He turns through the pages, finally landing on a picture of a boat sitting in a peaceful marina, white paint glistening in the sun against a bright blue background. 

_ \-- “I’m gonna do it,” Adam says, the words linked together through delicate tendrils of sound. His shoulders ache and he’s not sure why. When he looks down his hands are curled around bright silver; his distorted reflection looks back at him. --  _

_ \-- “I’m sorry,” A distant voice says, the words garbled and watered-down. Adam aches and he doesn’t know why. “I can’t, and neither can you. I won’t let you.” The voice says, iron wrought with conviction. “I’ll kill you before I let that happen.” Pain blooms on his shoulder and when Adam falls to the ground his forearms and palms split open --  _

_ \-- he reaches for the railing but his hands, slick with blood, slip off when he tries to pull himself up and his shoulder is on fire but he tries and fails and tries again to stand --  _

_ \-- rough hands haul him up and tip him over the railing he opens his mouth to scream but hits the water before the sound can ring out --  _

_ \-- it’s cold, he’s so cold, he didn’t think he could ever be this cold the current is pulling him down further and further he holds his breath as long as he can as he fights against the water in a desperate attempt to reach the surface--  _

Bob’s still speaking when Holster comes back to the room. He sways, shoulder dipping to brush against Ransom’s, but he straightens up once he remembers which body he’s in. Ransom glances up at him in concern but Holster just shakes his head once, a tiny, contained movement, and one of Ransom’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows twitch up but he doesn’t ask. Holster scrubs his hands over his face, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. The pressure grounds him enough to speak. 

“Was there an investigation?” Holster hears his voice ringing through the room but it still doesn’t feel like  _ his _ , Adam’s speaking through him and all Holster can do is follow the breadcrumbs. He crosses his arms over his chest and digs his fingertips into his biceps; the dull ache is an anchor drifting through still waters to scrape across the sea floor in search of something, anything to hold on to. 

“The coast guard searched for you for weeks.” Bob replies, eyes on the book in his hands as he flips through the pages to find the correct article. Holster shakes his head, digs his fingers deeper into his skin. 

“No, a criminal investigation. Were the police involved?” He asks and Bob finally looks up, a confused expression on his face. It looks familiar and when Holster glances to look at Jack he recognizes where he’s seen that look before. 

“No, why?” Bob asks, and Holster’s not exactly sure how to phrase his reply so he just shrugs and lets go, releasing the truth into the wild.

“I’m pretty sure I was murdered,” Holster says, and there’s a beat of silence before the room explodes. 

“ _ What?!”  _ Ransom gasps as Bob drops the photo album. Lardo’s frozen, eyes wide and shocked as Shitty lets out a frankly impressive stream of profanity. Bitty looks at Holster, then at Jack, back to Holster, and then back to Jack as Jack’s wide eyes are mirrored on his mother’s face. Holster gestures to the picture and raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. He doesn’t think  _ oh, I just remembered dying, it’s chill, don’t worry about it  _ is an appropriate response. 

“This pictures was taken right after we won the Cup the second time, and look: no scars on my arms or shoulder.” Is what he says instead as he points the to picture Jack’s now holding in a white-knuckled grip. “I don’t think I fell into the water. I think I was pushed. Well, thrown.” He explains. When he turns Ransom’s face is ashen but he reaches out for Holster’s hand nevertheless and laces their fingers together. It feels strange to be so affectionate in front of people he’s only known a few hours or a few days, but he trusts Ransom. He squeezes his hand and when Ransom looks up at him Holster can read  _ I’m so sorry someone hurt you _ in the set of Ransom’s brow and the downward curl of his lips. Holster tilts his head to say  _ I’m okay _ and Ransom nods and returns the squeeze. 

“I think we could all use a break,” Alicia says as she pushes the office door open. Holster has to agree. He gently untangles his fingers from Ransom’s and turns, intent on heading straight for the kitchen and Bitty’s brownies when a flash of white catches the corner of his eye. He pauses, reaching out to pick up the heavy picture frame that caught his eye. 

It’s of Jack in a white and blue hockey uniform, pads and skates still on, holding Bitty tightly as they kiss. They’re standing at center ice, surrounded by a crowd, in public, and they’re  _ kissing at center ice _ . It’s baffling. Holster studies the picture intently, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. He knows Jack plays professionally, and he knows Jack and Bitty are together, but he hadn’t known that both those facts were common knowledge. 

When he looks up the room is staring at him again. Jack has his arm wrapped around Bitty’s shoulders. Holster sees the defiance in the jut of Bitty’s chin, the set of Jack’s brow, the way they’re standing together, shoulders back, waiting for his reaction. The room is silent, waiting for him to speak, and Holster doesn’t know how to tell him that the words caught in his throat are of longing, of understanding, of awe. 

_ The roar of the crowd reverberates through Adam’s veins, pulsing in time with his jackhammer heart. His knuckles are raw and there’s blood on his uniform, vibrant red staining the white material. Adam can feel every minute of the game in his calves, his thighs, in the blood and sweat trickling down his forehead. It’s the best kind of hurt. He skates towards the penalty box, leaving the refs and the last of the scrum behind him.   _

_ “You shouldn’t have done that,” Danny says, and his voice somehow floats above the noise surrounding them, drowning out the chaos with a still silence.  _

_ “Done what?” Adam knows the answer but he asks anyway, one foot already in the box. Danny glides behind him, Adam’s gloves and stick in his hands. The refs and the crowd are focused on the mess behind them, the colorblocked ballet that’s either violently graceful or gracefully violent, Adam’s not sure.  _

_ “You can’t fight everyone who calls me a -” Danny begins, tossing Adam’s stick in the box with tight, frustrated movements. Adam cuts him off; he’s already had to hear that word once today and the thought of hearing it again, this time from Danny’s lips, is suddenly unbearable, unthinkable, unendurable.  _

_ “I can, actually.” Adam shoots back. He steps into the box and leans against the plexiglass wall. They’re surrounded by thousands of people but when Danny’s momentum carries him to the edge of the ice and he’s close enough for Adam to count the beads of sweat caught on his thick eyebrows and lush eyelashes, close enough for Adam to hold him, to cup his cheek with his rough, undeserving hands, close enough for Adam to slip up, to forget himself, to ruin everything they’ve worked for.  _

_ “Adam,” Danny sighs, but Adam shakes his head. The box is a few inches higher than the ice, exaggerating their height difference. It makes Adam want to curl over Danny, to shield him from the burning weight of the thousands of eyes surrounding them.  _

_ “Danny,” Adam begins, searching desperately for the right words. The cut on his forehead pulses with the beat of his heart. He swallows, once, and steadies himself before speaking. “If I could kiss you right this fucking second I would, but I can’t, and it’s killing me. It’s not going to stop killing me anytime soon, so can you please just let me beat the shit out assholes who think insulting you is going to make them any better at hockey?” Adam knows he sounds desperate, knows he must look desperate as well with blood and sweat staining his sweater but Danny looks up at him like he’s precious. Danny is the only one who knows how delicate he truly is, beneath his raw knuckles and bruises. _

_ Danny hands him his gear, pressing it into his chest. He lingers just long enough for Adam to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. “Just don’t fuck up your teeth,” Danny says, and Adam has to laugh.  _

_ “Interesting priorities, Danny Boy.” Adam says, and Danny rolls his eyes like he always does when Adam uses that particular nickname.  _

_ “What can I say? I’m a tooth guy.” Danny grins and then he’s gone, darting across the ice with a grace Adam’s yet to see in another player. His heart jumps in his chest, wild but wary. He slips his gloves back on his hands and sits on the bench, waiting out the clock.  _

“You’re, uh.” Holster begins. He swallows in an attempt to keep his voice steady. “You’re out? And you’re still playing?” He knows the question doesn’t sound casual, not by a long shot, and he doesn’t know how to tell the room that his voice is shaking with amazement, not anger. 

“Yes,” Jack says, like it’s obvious, and Holster can’t imagine a world where that’s true. The thought makes his hands and voice shake. 

“No one’s giving you any trouble?” Holster asks as he sets down the frame. It rattles against the bookshelf he sets it on, but the room has turned its attention back towards Jack. Holster can feel Ransom’s eyes on him; the weight is comforting. 

“Some, but nothing we can’t handle.” Jack says with a shrug. The tightness around his mother’s mouth and the steel in his father’s eyes tell Holster that maybe it’s not as simple as Jack makes it sound, but he’s out, and he’s  _ playing _ , and Holster’s struggling to make sense of it all. 

“That’s. That’s really great. I never - I didn’t think that’d ever be possible.” Holster looks around the room, at the various shades of understanding painted on his friend’s faces. His stomach twists just as his lungs contract and the shrine-slash-office is suddenly too small and too big all at the same time. “I’m just. Outside, I’ll be, okay, bye.” Holster mumbles as he slips out the door, leaving the group behind him.

It’s not the most graceful exit, but Holster knows he’s done worse (tripping on his shoelaces after Temple, breaking a stick on the boards after taking another penalty, the memories keep coming and coming and Holster isn’t ready for any of them but his feet sink in the sand as the waves wash over his feet and before he knows it he’s knee deep and the water’s getting higher and higher). He manages to make it outside and his legs give out just as he reaches the two steps connecting the wooden deck to the stone patio so he sits there, in the backyard of a family he’s known for all of an hour, and wraps his arms around his knees. He gives himself a minute, a full sixty seconds, to lose it. He squeezes his arms as tight as possible and presses his forehead into his knees, letting his breathing pick up as he slowly counts to sixty in his head. When the time is up he loosens his grip and relaxes his neck. For a second, it’s terrible. 

Then, it’s bearable. 

The porch door opens and closes softly. The wood creaks softly beneath someone’s feet and just when Holster expects to see Ransom’s white sneakers he’s greeted with a pair of neon yellow trainers instead.

“Can I sit?” Jack asks, the words measured and even, cups of flour with the excess scraped off carefully with a knife. 

“It’s your house,” Holster says, but Jack’s still until he nods. He scoots over and Jack sits on the step beside him, their elbows and shoulders brushing together. Holster loosens his grip on his knees but doesn’t let them go. They sit in silence for a long moment. 

“I didn’t plan on coming out that way.” Jack says suddenly, breaking the less-than-comfortable silence. Holster turns his head, resting his chin on his knees. 

“Why did you?” Holster hates how quiet his voice is, how fragile the words sound. It doesn’t feel like  _ him _ , and maybe Adam was breakable, maybe he was quiet and still, someone who runs away from a conversation. Holster doesn’t know who this person is. 

“Bitty told me to kiss him, so I did.” Jack says, like it’s simple. Maybe it was. Maybe it can be, now. The answer makes Holster smile. 

“That’s nice,” he says, and pretends not to hear the longing in his own voice. Jack nods, staring straight ahead, and Holster’s grateful for the privacy. 

“It was,” Jack says, a small smile ghosting over his lips as he remembers. He glances over at Holster, a flash of pale blue eyes, before looking ahead again. “My team was great. Other people weren’t. Commissioner Freeman called me, which I wasn’t expecting. I thought he’d stay out of it, you know? See how the league reacted before saying anything definite. He’s careful like that. But he called me, hours after it happened.” Jack pauses as he shifts, finding a slightly more comfortable position on the stone steps. “He congratulated me on the Cup. Then he told me I had his complete and unwavering support. He said it was time to stop waiting for the league to be ready, that we had to make it ready ourselves.” Holster can hear Daniel’s voice in Jack’s words. He aches with memories stitched into his hands, his arms, his chest. 

“That sounds like Daniel,” Holster says, and if his voice is a little thick, well, Jack doesn’t seem to notice. 

“You two were close.” Jack says, and when he turns Holster can read understanding in the set of his brow and the curve of his lips. He knows. 

_ Adam trudges to the bed closest to the door, dragging his feet over the thick mud-brown carpet. Danny’s right behind him, laden with the two suitcases he’d insisted on carrying up to their shared room, and for once Adam hadn’t argued. It had been a long, painful game, and Adam can feel every second he was on the ice in his aching thighs and the throbbing in his busted lip and black eye. His knuckles are raw and bruised, the cuts too fresh for protective scabs to have formed. _

_ Adam groans when he finally sits on the bed, too tired to stand but still too bruised to force himself to lay down. He closes his eyes. He hears the twin thumps of the suitcases on the carpet, the click of the sliding lock on the door, muffled footsteps, the bathroom sink turning on and off.  _

_ “Stay still,” Danny murmurs, and then his warm hands tilt Adam’s chin up and a cool cloth dabs at his split lip. He hisses in pain and Danny shushes him. The cloth moves to his hands, and when Adam opens his eyes he sees Danny kneeling in front of him, mouth turned down in a frown and brow furrowed as he dabs at the cuts on Adam’s knuckles.  _

_ “I’m fine,” Adam says, but Danny glares up at him the moment the words leave his aching mouth.  _

_ “You always say you’re fine.” Danny says, pressing the cloth into one of the cuts with a little more force than is necessary. “One of these days you won’t be,” His voice is so soft, so tenuous, so unlike himself. Adam turns his hand over, tangling their fingers together. He leans forward until his forehead presses against Danny’s.  _

_ “I’ll be fine as long as I’m with you,” Adam whispers, and it stings when Danny kisses him but he presses back, harder, until Danny’s taste is drowned out by metallic blood.  _

“Yeah, we were,” Holster says, and he knows that Jack hears  _ I loved him, I loved him, I loved him _ in the pauses between the words. “We didn’t have a word for it.” That much is true. Ransom says things have changed, that people like them can call each other boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, spouse. Holster still doesn’t think there’s a word for someone who’s your best friend but also holds your heart in their hands because it’s grown too big for your own chest. 

“I can’t imagine,” Jack says, but Holster shakes his head. 

“I think you can,” He mumbles. If not Jack, then who? A summer breeze blows between them, carrying the words over the patio furniture, all the way to the pond that dominates the backyard. The words ripple over the surface of the water, and it’s comforting, familiar. Nothing has changed, and everything has. 

“What’s your shoe size?” Jack says suddenly, breaking the silence once again. Holster looks up at him, thick eyebrows drawing together in confusion. 

“Is that some kind of new gay code Ransom forgot to tell me about?” He asks, wondering if it’s a verbal green carnation or a kerchief hanging out of a pocket. Jack tilts his head to the side, considering. 

“No. I don’t think so. Come on.” He stands and doesn’t wait for Holster to do the same before walking away, making a b-line for the large building tucked beside the pond. 

It’s an ice rink, because apparently people have those in their backyards now. Jack hands him a pair of skates and tosses a pair of gloves his way once the laces are tied. The gloves are longer than the ones he’d played with, covering more of his wrist and forearm than he’s accustomed to. The stick Jack hands him is much lighter than any stick he’s held before and doesn’t seem to be made of wood at all. Jack tips a bucket of pucks onto the ice and Holster’s relieved to see that those, at least, look exactly the same. 

When he steps onto the ice a vice he hadn’t realized was clamped around his lungs suddenly releases. The cool air rushes into his lungs as he glides, momentum carrying him across the smooth surface. He sheds the past few decades like a snakeskin and for the first time he feels like  _ Adam _ . He takes another step, acclimating to the new body he’s found himself in, and another step, and another, and then he takes off in a sudden burst of speed. He sprints around the rink, skates digging into the ice, and as the cold air whips past his cheeks his stomach settles for the first time in days. 

Memories come flooding in: learning to skate bundled up in layer after layer of sweaters and coats, countless hours spent with a bucket of pucks and an empty net, the roar of the crowd as he chases down a wayward puck, the taste of blood during a scrum. 

He stops running and lets his momentum carry him across the rink. Holster closes his eyes, tipping his head back as his muscles and bones remember what to do. He opens his eyes just before he hits the boards behind the net and when he banks smoothly he sees that the number of people on the ice has tripled. 

Everyone’s on the ice, save Alicia and Lardo, armed with sticks and a tipped over bucket of pucks. They’re passing them skillfully - some more so than others - but as Holster watches Bitty track down a puck, lightning fast, and pass it to Shitty, who tips it off to Jack, who barrels around Ransom to sink the puck in the back of the net, he can read  _ this is home _ in every movement. He glides over to Bob, who’s dangling a puck skillfully in an exercise Holster immediately recognizes at a level he’s seen on the ice at stadiums packed with thousands of spectators. Holster reaches with his stick to snag the puck away, grinning when Bob snags it back just as easily. 

“You played?” Holster asks, and the familiar clacking and scraping lulls for a long moment after his words echo over the ice. 

“Yeah, a little,” Bob replies, face split in a huge grin that’s only matched by the matching expression his son is sporting a few meters away. “Did you know Jack won the Cup a few years back?” Bob asks, and Holster shakes his head, because of course he didn’t. 

“Still working on winning it again,” Jack says, weight settled on his heels as he skates towards them. He steals the puck from his father, whipping it over towards Bitty, who calms the spinning puck to send it right back in a blistering pass. 

“Yeah, the second time’s harder.” Holster agrees before setting off in a sudden burst of speed to intercept the pass, banking it off the inside of his skate to pass it to Bob, who immediately takes off towards the goal. 

A game of shinny breaks out, with Bitty, Bob, and Holster on one team and Jack, Ransom, and Shitty on the other. One defenseman, two forwards, and no goalie seems pretty fair. The game returns to Holster’s hands the more he moves, body reacting before his mind has enough time to worry about his next move. 

It’s  _ fun. _ Hockey’s not always fun in the memories that come back to him in bits and pieces, sailing after the passes he receives and gliding in the wake of the shots he takes. Still, it’s fun. Holster presses Ransom against the boards until his laughter echoes through the rink. He picks Shitty up, just because he can, to make sure Bob has a wide open net. He pushes Bitty to give him an extra burst of speed when he needs it and snows Jack in retaliation for the water bottle Jack had squirted in his face. 

By the end the final score is heavily debated and Holster’s not sure if his sides ache more from the exertion or the laughter. He hangs back after the others troop off the ice, letting his eyes slip shut as the air brushes over his pink cheeks. 

Being Adam’s not so bad. Holster can get used to this. 

“Do you need a minute?” Ransom’s warm voice cuts through the cool air, curling around Holster’s chest. He looks over the ice, taking in the lines carved by their skates, follows one of the individual paths until it twines with another, and another, and loses it in a knot that spreads out in every direction. 

“Nah,” Holster says, and somehow it’s the truth. He turns and skates towards Ransom. He can’t take his hand because they’re still wearing their gloves but he curls his arm over Ransom’s shoulders as they skate, feet perfectly in sync, towards the exit. Holster’s hands are steady as he unties the skate laces and tugs his shoes back on. He takes his time standing, getting used to walking and not gliding again. It’s easier than shifting from a seal to a human, but the sensation’s not so different. Ransom tangles their fingers together as they walk out of the rink and Holster’s sweaty and tired but he feels better than he has in a long, long time. 

They hear voices in the kitchen as they cut through the living room, but Ransom leads him through the huge house to an upstairs bedroom with a connected bathroom. They take turns showering and if Holster stands under the hot water for a little too long, well, Ransom doesn’t call him out. 

Holster digs through their shared bag and pulls out the same floral button down he’d worn the first morning they’d met, when he’d rummaged through a stranger’s closet before making him tea and talking for hours and hours. He remembers that whole day so clearly, from Ransom hanging the seal skin out in the open instead of locking it away to curling around Ransom for the first time that evening. 

It feels like he met Ransom years ago but the memories from decades ago, from his real life, are fresh and bloodied, tender to the touch. He’d felt like Adam for the first time on the ice, but now that he’s back on solid ground he feels like Holster again and he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to reconcile his two lives. 

Just then, Ransom emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, fully clothed and dressed in his customary salmon shorts and the striped tank Holster had claimed his first week in the lighthouse. He tilts his head to the side and studies Holster’s outfit with a small grin, and holds his hand out silently. Holster stands it takes it, and they walk back downstairs. 

The living room looks like a library threw up in it. There are books everywhere, papers scattered across the floor. Half of the contents from the office are laid out and when Holster gets closer he sees a neat line of scrapbooks, framed newspaper articles, and printed out articles, stretching across the floor. It’s separated from the chaos by a few inches of carpet. Bob and Alicia are standing on the other side of the mess, studying it intently, while Shitty and Jack rearrange the papers on the ground. Lardo’s flipping through a stack of papers while Bitty taps at the printer impatiently, waiting for more pages to spit out. 

“Um, okay,” Holster says when they walk into the room, stunned. He drops Ransom’s hand in his surprise and takes a half step forward, pausing when every pair of eyes in the room turns to him. 

“Good, you’re here!” Alicia says brightly as he waves him over. Holster carefully walks through the organized chaos, stepping over books and picture frames as he makes his way across the room. Ransom’s behind him, following his footsteps through the mess. 

“What is this?” Ransom asks, reaching out for Holster’s arm as he takes a huge step over a messy stack of papers. Holster steadies him as he wobbles; his warm skin settles the unease bubbling in Holster’s stomach. 

“We figured if you were murdered you’d want to know who did it.” Lardo explains as she neatly straightens the papers by tapping the bottom edge on the coffee table that’s been pushed to the side of the room. Bitty hands her another paper, fresh from the printer, and she adds it to the stack. 

“And we realized that it would have been somebody involved with your organization because no one else was on the boat that night.” Alicia continues before Holster has a chance to speak. Lardo nods and walks across the room, handing the stack to Shitty, who distributes half to Jack. 

“Then we looked for any clues, and, well. The timeline built itself.” Lardo shrugs as Jack and Shitty begin placing the pages along the timeline. 

“There wasn’t an official investigation because no one had any reason to believe you were killed.” Alicia says, gesturing down at the timeline. “So we thought we’d do it.” Holster studies the materials laid out on the floor, catching glimpses of his name at every turn. His own face looks up at him, immortalized in black and white. 

“Do you know who Thomas Lapointe is? His name keeps showing up in a lot of these articles.” Lardo says, and she’s only a few feet away but it feels like the words take hours to travel through the air, settling on Holster’s shoulders as he takes in the information in front of him. 

“He owned the team.” Holster says. His voice sounds distant, faintly echoing around a far off cavern. “Tom was intense, but a decent guy.” There’s an awkward silence after he speaks, the tension in the room so palatable it tears Holster’s attention from the picture of the party boat that’s printed in vivid color. Ransom shifts his weight beside him as Bob scratches the back of his head, face twisted in a frown. “What?” 

“Thomas Lapointe is the reason Les Aigles folded.” Bob says, laying the words out carefully. “He ran the organization into the ground. The team ran out of money in 1979. Didn’t even finish out the season.” His face twists in an expression that’s half outrage, half anguish, before it smooths out into a melancholy smile. 

“How is that possible? We won two Cups!” Holster protests, trying and failing to make sense of the information. He can picture Lapointe perfectly, from his neatly pressed suits to his thick, unruly eyebrows, and the man Holster - Adam? - the man he remembers isn’t capable of destroying The Eagles.

“No one really knows.” Jack adds as he places another paper down on the timeline. “The money just disappeared.” That doesn’t make sense, either, because money doesn’t vanish from a publicly traded companies’ coiffers. He’s been out of the loop for a while, but things can’t have changed  _ that _ much. 

Bob crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders rising and falling in a defeated shrug. “Everyone knows Lapointe was behind it, but he was never indicted. A couple of the board members spent a few years in prison but his lawyers were able to shake off every charge even though all the evidence pointed to him. The judge said he was negligent but he just had to pay a small fine and do some community service.” As Bob explains it becomes clear that things haven’t changed at all. Holster shakes his head, trying to put his thoughts in order. He feels a warm hand on his back and he leans against it, grateful for Ransom’s silent comfort. 

“I don’t understand. He was so protective of the team. He came to every single game and even some practices.” Holster says, more to himself than anyone else. He remembers Lapointe’s furious face in the locker room after losses, his joyous cheering after wins, how he’d break sticks over his knee, the way he’d cradled the Cup after they won. 

“Maybe he was just protecting his investment. We can show you some evidence? There’s a documentary about it and a few true crime podcasts.” Ransom offers, but Holster shakes his head. 

“No, I believe you. It’s just hard to reconcile, you know?” He says, still lost in the memories that are trickling back, dropping steadily in the back of his mind as he scrambles to place bucket beneath them. The room’s quiet, so Holster clears his head with a quick shake and turns to Alicia, who seems to be running this show. “So, what did you find?” She flashes a reassuring smile his way before walking him over to a specific part of the timeline that’s dominated by newspaper articles and pictures of Daniel.

“Bobby was right - the Cup was found on the boat after Daniel Freeman bought it, but I don’t think he purchased it because of nostalgia.” She’s choosing her words carefully as she dips down to collect a few papers from the timeline. 

“Why not?” Holster asks, taking one of the articles she offers him. There’s a grainy black and white picture of the boat beneath the headline, “Stanley Cup Found: Hockey Star Still Missing” stretches across the yellowing paper. 

“Freeman left the team in the offseason to play for the Vancouver Canucks.” Alicia continues, placing another paper in Holster’s hands. “Look, this article says he violated a trade agreement but Lapointe voided the contract as a sign of goodwill. Why would he buy the boat to remember a team he left almost immediately? And why would a first line forward leave a team right after he helped win the Stanley Cup? People don’t  _ do _ that. The motivations don’t add up.” She taps the papers as she speaks, glancing back at Bob, who nods in agreement. His mouth is set in a firm line, arms crossed over his chest, looking decidedly uncomfortable. 

“And look at this,” Lardo chimes in, drawing Holster’s attention to the scrapbook in her hands. “Freeman was the first one who noticed you were gone and he was the one who magically found the Cup even after the police had searched the boat  _ and _ it was moved across the country to Vancouver. How did the police and an entire crew miss a thirty five pound silver statue?” She asks, looking up at Holster expectantly, but he doesn’t venture a guess. He looks down at the timeline, at the mountain of evidence they’ve uncovered in just a day, and takes a deep breath. 

“What are you saying?” Holster knows where they’re going but he can’t make himself follow until they say exactly what they mean. Alicia and Lardo trade a long glance, and then Lardo reaches out to place a hand on his. 

“Just that it’s strange that Freeman shows up in every aspect of this case.” Lardo says slowly, carefully, and Holster might objectively understand her reasoning but he can’t accept it. 

“No, no way. He couldn’t even if he wanted to! I had, what, almost a foot and forty pounds on him? And I  _ know _ him. He’d never hurt me.” Holster protests, taking a step back, away from the timeline, from the accusation, from the possibility that Daniel might have hurt him. It’s not possible, in any sense of the word. His heart thunders in his chest, the frantic beat echoing over his bones. 

Lardo and Alicia trade another glance, and Alicia taps in. She holds up her hands, like she’s trying to soothe a wild animal, and takes a small step towards him. “You’d just won the Cup. I know Bobby wasn’t sober during any of the celebrations. I doubt anybody is.” She says, each word measured and even. 

“So?” Holster asks, unsure where she’s going with this.

“So, you’re drunk, your guard is down, and maybe all it took was a push.” Alicia explains, and Holster immediately shakes his head.

“It was a hell of a lot more than a push.” Holster pulls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, holding up his hands so Alicia can see the jagged scars that cover his forearms. “A push wouldn’t do this, or give me this.” He gestures to the scar on his temple, ducking down so she can examine it. He feels her cool fingers trace over the edge of the scar before Shitty speaks. 

“Ransom, you’re a doctor. What do you think did that?” He asks, and the room turns to Ransom.

“Uhm,” Ransom’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, thick eyebrows drawing together. He looks vaguely nauseous, the same expression he’d worn when he’d walked in on Holster watching  _ Grey’s Anatomy _ . Holster’s just learning what it’s like to be confronted with your own past lives. Ransom’s big, expressive eyes flicker up to meet Holster’s. He smiles, hoping it helps, and Ransom’s hands are steady when he wraps his warm hands around Holster’s forearms to trace his fingers over the scars dappled over his skin. “These look like they came from broken glass - see how irregular they are?” His fingertips circle around one of the larger examples, and for a moment Holster swears they’re back on the beach, laying on the warm sand as Ransom idly traces lines between his freckles. 

“Wait, look at this,” Bitty’s voice cuts through the memory, drowning out the sound of the waves and gulls. “A newspaper interviewed your teammates to see if they heard or saw anything suspicious, and one of them remembers hearing glass break on his way to the bathroom. He didn’t think anything of it, but he said he heard it around 5am.” He’s barely finished speaking before Shitty straightens up, quickly flipping through the pages scattered over the floor until he locates a specific article. 

“Weird, someone in, here we go, this article says they woke up to the sound of a cork popping at the same time. That’s something, right?” Shitty asks, immediately handing the paper over to Jack to verify his finding. Holster can see the energy in the room shifting, crackling and snapping with renewed spirit, but he’s not sure it’s worth it.

“Not necessarily,” He says, a pang of sharp guilt cutting into his side when Bitty’s shoulders slump. He doesn’t want to discourage them, but he was  _ there, _ and he’s not sure the minute details are anything more than they seem. “We were partying pretty hard. Anyone could have opened a bottle of champagne or broken a glass.” Holster can see the group deflate so he takes drastic action, slipping his sweatshirt over his head to show the room the long, thin scar that arcs over his shoulder. “Ransom, what do you think did this?” He asks, turning so he has a better view of the scar Holster knows he’s seen a thousand times. 

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Ransom answers truthfully. He reaches out, pointing at various points of the scar with his finger. Holster can feel the warmth of his hands, even from centimeters away. “Something curved, obviously, maybe circular, probably with a dull rim but with enough blunt force it broke the skin. From the curvature we can assume both marks were made with the same object, which was sharper on the shoulder than the head. See how much more defined the edges of the scar are? But that’s just a guess.” He finishes with a shrug. Holster turns and catches his eye, Ransom shoots him a small, reassuring smile. 

“Bobby,” Alicia’s voice cuts through the invisible cords bonding them together and reaches out, grabbing the sleeve of Bob’s sweater. She pulls him over, dragging him down so he’s at her height. “Look from this angle.”

“What am I looking for?” Bob asks, tilting his head one way, then the other as he tries to understand what she’s talking about. She takes his chin in her hand and positions his head at a specific angle, gazing up at Holster’s shoulder.

“Can you think of anything else that big, that’s round, and would be sturdy enough to make a mark like that.” She says, and Bob’s eyes go wide.

“No, no way,” he shakes his head, pauses, squints at the scar, and shakes his head again. He rises up to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest again. 

Alicia mimics his pose, shoulders rolled back as she stands her ground. “You have to admit it’s possible,” She reasons, but Bob stares her down. Holster’s still standing in the middle of the living room, shirtless, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waits for them to come to a conclusion. Jack finally steps forward. 

“Maman, Papa, what are you talking about?” He asks, and Bob turns to face him before answering. 

“Your  _ mother _ thinks the murder weapon is the Cup.” Bob says flatly, and it’s too ridiculous a motion to entertain until a fog rises in the back of Holster’s mind, rolling over the waves on a cool morning. 

_ “I’m gonna do it,” Adam says, the words linked together through delicate tendrils of sound. His shoulders ache. When he looks down his hands are curled around bright silver; his distorted reflection looks back at him. The names etched into the Stanley Cup soften his jawline, smooth the bump in his nose, turn his frown into a half-smile.   _

_ “I’m sorry,” A distant voice says, the words garbled and watered-down. Adam aches and he doesn’t know why. “I can’t, and neither can you. I won’t let you.” The voice says, iron wrought with conviction. “I’ll kill you before I let that happen.” There’s a flash of silver, pain blooms on his shoulder and when Adam falls to the ground his forearms and palms split open on broken glass strewn across the floor. He sees the glistening shards in stunning clarity, jagged teeth --  _

_ \-- he reaches for the railing but his hands, slick with blood, slip off when he tries to pull himself up and his shoulder is on fire but he tries and fails and tries again to stand and then silver flashes again and his head splits apart, his neck snaps forward and he’s flat on the ground again he can’t see he can’t see he can’t see as rough hands haul him up and tip him over the railing he opens his mouth to scream but hits the water before the sound can ring out --  _

_ \-- it’s cold, he’s so cold, he didn’t think he could ever be this cold the current is pulling him down further and further he holds his breath as long as he can as he fights against the water in a desperate attempt to reach the surface but his limbs are made of lead and his lungs are filled with concrete and the dark water crushes him and crushes him and crushes him --  _

“The  _ Stanley  _ Cup?” Bitty’s voice cuts through the darkness surrounding him, a ray of light that drags him back to the present and drops him in the middle of the living room headfirst. He half expects his clothes to be wet but when he sucks in a deep breath his lungs are filled with air, not water. Relief floods through 

“No, it’s too big,” Jack says, but, just like his father, squints at the scar nevertheless. “Or, wait. Oh.  _ Oh. _ ” His blue eyes go wide, matching his mother’s and Holster’s stomach twists in heavy knots. 

“It’s not possible,” Ransom murmurs, but Holster shakes his head. 

“It is.” He says, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he calls back the memory. “I was holding it before,” Holster swallows, unable to continue before he takes a deep, calming breath. “Before it happened.” 

“You’re remembering.” Ransom says, voice heavy. He knows the toll the memories take all too well, and Holster has no idea what havoc this particular one will wreck on him. 

“Just flashes. There was something I wanted to do, and someone wanted to stop me? I think? They said they’d kill me, which is like, valid because I guess they did but also who just comes right out and says it like that?” Holster tries to joke, but the room stays silent, so he continues. “Ransom was right, I fell onto broken glass, but I don’t know how it got there. I don’t know how  _ I _ got there, or who’s there with me, but I know they threw me overboard. I remember that much.”

“Maman, where are the articles about Freeman finding the Cup?” Jack asks suddenly, kneeling down to dig through one of the piles that makes up the timeline. Alicia kneels down next to him, gathering the correct pages. 

“What are you looking for?” She asks, handing Jack one stack before immediately turning back to gather more evidence. 

“If someone really did, uhm. All that to you with the Cup, it would have been damaged. We were told just dropping it would damage it, but using it to bludgeon someone - no offense,” He winces, handsome face contorting, and for some reason it makes Holster feel lighter, seeing the more human side of one of his new friends. Holster waves off his concern. 

“None taken, unless you’re saying that I broke the Stanley Cup with my thick skull.” It might not be the time for a joke, but Holster sure as hell needs to hear one, and he figures if  _ he _ can survive it then anyone can. They’re solving his murder, after all. Jack, somehow, seems to know exactly what to say. 

“Oh, I definitely am,” He chirps, lips curling up in a crooked smile. Holster matches it, reveling in the macabe for just a moment before Jack’s back to business. “Even if it wasn’t damaged, I’d like to know the condition it was in.” Lardo begins flipping through a scrapbook as Shitty turns to some papers piled in a corner. The room’s just settled into a silence that’s only broken by rusling pages but Bitty breaks it with a loud cry. 

“Here we go!” He says, tapping on his phone so quickly Holster can barely track the movements of his thumbs. “Okay, Hall of Fame website says the Cup was found under a pile of tarps in a backup lifeboat. Apparently the cops missed it because they didn’t know there was another lifeboat to check?” His voice raises, the phrase ending in a question as he reads.

“That sounds sketchy as fuck, to say the least.” Shitty says what the room is thinking, sitting back on his heels with papers surrounding him. Holster’s about to speak, to ask if anyone knows if backup lifeboats are even a thing, because that doesn’t sound real at all, when Lardo reaches out to grab his sleeve. She’s surprisingly strong, fingers digging into his skin as she speaks.

“Listen, ‘NHL investigators can confirm that the Cup was intact but the bowl itself was damaged but are unsure what could have caused it. Notably, the Cup was sticky from what was later discovered to be dried champagne.’” Lardo traces under the lines of the neatly printed article she’s reading, the scrapbook balanced on her knees. Everyone gathers around her, trying to crowd close to see the article for themselves. 

“There’s not a picture?” Jack asks, sounding disappointed, but Lardo flips the page and the familiar silhouette of the Stanley Cup catches Holster’s eye. 

“Yeah, here.” She says, flipping the book around to hold it up for everyone to see. 

“Holy shit,” Holster hears himself say, but he’s too focused on the picture of the Cup to stop himself. A section of the rim is caved in, the crumpled silver rolled in on itself in a clump. The rest of the Cup seems undamaged, but the uneven rim makes it seem unbalanced. 

“That’ll do it,” Jack says from somewhere to Holster’s left. 

“Please tell me that’s not the Stanley Cup we ate pie out of a few years ago.” Bitty’s hands are covering his face, big eyes peering out from between his fingers, looking the way most of the room feels. 

“No, don’t worry.” Jack taps at the phone, pulling up a picture of the three Cups sitting side by side. “This one’s at the Hall of Fame in Toronto, apparently, with the original Lord Stanley’s Cup. They gave us the Presentation Cup.” He explains, because of course he knows the intricacies of which Cup is used for what purpose. It’s a relief, Holster imagines, to know that none of the people in this room have touched the object that caused him so much pain. 

“So…” Ransom begins, looking around the room for confirmation as he speaks. “The Stanley Cup is the murder weapon?” He sounds horrified, eyes wide. 

“I technically drowned, but yeah,” Holster cuts in, the flash of silver from his memory materializing into the prize he’d worked his whole life to win. Raising the Cup had been his proudest achievement, but now it rings hollow. Ransom takes a step towards him, already reaching out, but he pauses before he can close the distance between them. He looks down at the timeline, scanning the evidence one more times, eyes lighting up as he fits the puzzle pieces together. 

“Then that means Freeman did it, right?” Ransom asks, turning around slowly as he works his way through his reasoning. “He had the Cup in his possession the entire time.” He holds out his fingers, ticking off each piece of evidence as he thinks through the case. “Think about it. He does the deed, cleans the blood off with champagne, and hides it somewhere on the boat. After the cops don’t find it, he buys the whole damn boat and miraculously finds it again. It turns him into a hero, not a suspect.” 

“You realize what you’re saying.” Jack says, one eyebrow raised in an arch. “You think the current Commissioner of the National Hockey League is a murderer.” He’s saying that, and so much more. Ransom doesn’t know what Holster’s relationship to Dan was, but Jack does, and Holster appreciates his reluctance to accept the theory more than he can say. Jack glances at him, and Holster gives him a weak smile, in thanks. “We have to talk to him,” Jack proclaims, and the words chase the smile from Holster’s face faster than a riptide will drag an unsuspecting swimmer to a watery grave. 

“Jack, no -” He begins, but Jack shakes his head. 

“It’s basic due diligence. We have to find out if this theory holds water.” Jack explains, and while Holster appreciates the effort and understands the logic, it doesn’t seem possible. 

“What are you going to do, march into his office and ask if  - if he  _ killed _ someone forty years ago?” Alicia asks, and Jack doesn’t have an answer to that, but Shitty stands and takes over. 

“No, but you could ask him questions about it.” Shitty says, studying Jack’s face carefully. 

“That’s too suspicious,” Alicia reasons, and Holster’s inclined to agree with her. He can’t remember Dan actually hitting him or pushing him, but if he did it then he’s capable of more than Holster ever thought possible. 

“Not if Jack Zimmermann, known nerd, is writing a book about his father’s favorite hockey player.” Shitty explains, reaching up to wrap his arm around Jack’s shoulders. 

“That’s...Brilliant. Papa, can you set up a meeting?” Jack asks, accent growing thicker as the words come more quickly. 

“I don’t think it’s safe,” Bob begins, but Jack interrupts him before he can continue. 

“He’s, what, sixty eight years old now? And we’re not even sure he did it.” Jack holds his father’s gaze, waiting, until Bob sighs. 

“I’ll set it up, but enough murder talk. You’re all helping me make dinner.” He points at them all, gathering them up to herd them into the kitchen and put them to work. They gather around the Zimmermann’s huge table when Bob finally declares that dinner is ready, packed in so tightly that Lardo and Bitty are technically sharing a chair and Holster’s legs are pressed against at least three knees under the table. It’s loud from the conversation, the clinking of silverware, and the thump of chairs moving on the hardwood floors. It couldn’t be more different from his quiet meals with Ransom at the lighthouse but it feels the same, warm and nourishing as the food on his plate.

The past few decades were quiet, any sound muted and garbled by the water that surrounded him. He’d thought the empty space that lived between his ribs was where his old life used to reside, that the memories and knowledge of who he’d used to be would fill it if he ever managed to recover them. Now, though, Holster knows he was lonely. 

He’s not lonely anymore. 

Around him his friends (and they feel like  _ his _ friends, too, not just Ransom’s friends) are planning their next moves: Jack and Bitty catch a flight to Vancouver tomorrow night, where they’ll meet with Dan Freeman under the guise of research for a book Jack’s writing. Meanwhile, Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster will drive across Canada because Holster doesn’t have the proper identification for a plane ticket. Alicia and Bob bat around the idea of getting him a fake ID, but decide it’s too risky in the end. All the while, Ransom holds Holster’s hand under the table with one hand and writes in his little black notebook with the other. 

It’s been a long time since Holster was last surrounded by so many people. Selkies gather, sure, to trade current events or ask after loved ones before the wind snatches the words away, dragging it back over the rolling waves. Holster’s used to salt-stained lips detailing the highlights of the last few years, not actual conversation over food, on solid ground. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and no one presses him to talk or brings up the events they’d discussed earlier in the day. Bob doesn’t drag him back to the office, Jack doesn’t pull him aside to ask about his relationship with Danny, Lardo doesn’t shove his nose in yet another scrapbook of carefully collected evidence. 

Instead, they make room for him on the huge couch as they pass the remote around, flipping through channels until they find something they can agree on. Mindless television is usually Holster’s favorite thing, but he closes his eyes as the sound of the cooking show Lardo had selected wash over him. No one calls him out on it, and no one says a word when he follows Ransom up the stairs to bed a few episodes later. Holster sleeps curled around Ransom like he always does, his sealskin spread over them on top of the blankets, and for the first time in weeks he doesn’t dream. 

Ransom’s side of the bed is empty when Holster wakes so he follows the sound of voices after working his way through his morning routine. He’s halfway down the stairs when he hears Ransom’s hushed voice echoing over the hardwood floors and carefully styled furniture. 

“You’re seriously playing matchmaker right now?” Ransom whisper-shouts, and Holster can imagine the expression on his face so clearly. He’s using the same incredulous tone as when Holster had offered him a fish he’d caught in their little cove, brow furrowed and eyes wide as he studied the fang-grazed carcass. 

“I think she could be really good for you.” Bitty replies, voice dripping with tupelo honey. Holster’s frozen on the steps, foot raised, poised to move downward, as he tries to process the conversation he’s most definitely not supposed to hear. 

“I’m not really looking to date right now, Bits.” Ransom replies. There’s a rustling sound, like he’s crossed his arms or adjusted his shirt, and Holster’s brain focuses on that one particular detail to soften the blow of the words raining down on him. 

“I know, but maybe you should.” Bitty’s voice is gentle even as it scrapes over Holster’s skin, sandpaper rough, leaving raw, pink skin behind. It feels like hours before Ransom replies, and Holster’s chest sinks as the words float up to him, air bubbles filled with noxious gas instead of precious oxygen. 

“Fine. Send me her number.” Ransom sounds tired more than anything else, and his phone chimes with a notification almost immediately. Two sets of footsteps walk away, and Holster’s left alone on the steps. He descends them slowly, taking his time as the conversation cycles through his head in a brutal breakneck rhythm. 

Holster doesn’t know what to feel. He makes his way to the kitchen, somehow, and eats breakfast with Bitty on one side and Ransom on the other. He survives bidding Jack and Bitty goodbye as they head back to Providence to catch a flight to Vancouver and packing the car with Shitty. He makes it to Bob and Alicia walking them out to the car, hands full of snacks for the road and thermoses of coffee. Everything in Holster’s head is muddled up, and even though he has to bend down when Alicia wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him in for a hug, he feels small. It’s nice. He releases a breath and tries to relax. 

“Be careful,” She murmurs, giving him a fierce squeeze before letting him go. 

“I will,” Holster promises, and before she can reply he’s wrapped up in Bob’s arms. It’s strange, knowing that he’s this man’s hero. Holster had forgotten what that felt like, too. When he pulls back he offers his hand for a handshake, and there’s something familiar in the way Bob grabs his hand and pumps it. Holster tilts his head to the side, studying Bob’s expression, the curve of his smile and the shape of his eyes, and a small memory floats to the surface, bolstered by a strong current. 

“I signed something for you, didn’t I?” Holster asks, and the memory takes shape as Bob flushes bright red. He remembers red cheeks, a black eye, a missing front tooth, a hurried conversation in his terrible  Québécois. “A hockey card, right?” 

“Yeah,” Bob says, face split in a massive smile. “You told me to stop fighting the other kids at school.” As Bob speaks the memory settles into place in vivid color. 

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Holster jokes, and Bob laughs. He’d made Bob laugh back then, too, and Holster feels like Adam for the first time off the ice. It’s not bad. 

“You’d better get going,” Alicia slips an arm around Bob’s waist, gesturing to the car with the other hand. Everyone’s waiting. 

“ _ Bonne journée _ ,” Bob says warmly, offering him a wave as Holster climbs into the car. Holster returns the gesture and they pull away, leaving Bob and Alicia in the driveway. 

“What did you talk about?” Ransom asks, and the warmth that had gathered in Holster’s chest dissipates instantly. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from the window, knowing that Ransom’s too close for comfort right now. 

“Nothing,” Holster says, and luckily Ransom doesn’t ask again. 

Holster’s quiet for most of the day. He hunkers down on the other side of the small backseat with his arms crossed and head resting on the window. Shitty and Lardo keep up a steady stream of conversation in the front seat and Ransom organizes the information in his little notebook into lists and timelines, carefully including every piece of evidence they’ve gleaned so far. No matter how Ransom looks at it, all roads lead to Daniel Freeman. He types it up later that night in the motel they’d found somewhere between Toronto and Thunder Bay, Holster curled up on the other twin bed. It feels a little overkill, typing up the notes he’d carefully written just a few hours before, but the steady clacking of the keyboard fills the silence that’s draped over the tiny room.

Ransom’s not sure what else to do. He’s never seen Holster like this and he can’t really blame him for withdrawing after the past few days he’s had. He hasn’t had time to rest since he left the lighthouse last week, and Ransom can’t imagine the toll the returning memories must take as they settle back into place in Holster’s brain.

“So,” Ransom begins lamely, smoothing his hands over his laptop just to have something to do. “Today was,” He begins, hoping Holster will at least roll over so they can talk. 

“Yeah,” Holster agrees suddenly. He’s across the room in a flash and steps into the bathroom before Ransom can continue. The shower turns on and Ransom opens his laptop again. He clicks around idly, finally settling on his inbox. He stares at the unread messages, scanning for anything of actual importance. He hasn’t done this in a while; what was once his nightly routine was replaced by watching movies and cooking dinner with Holster.

Later, when the room is dark and Holster’s breathing has evened out, Ransom realizes that he didn’t sing in the shower. He didn’t even hum. Sharp worry spikes in the pit of Ransom’s stomach but he stamps it down and rolls over. He stares at the dark outline of Holster’s head and shoulders for a long moment, worrying his bottom lip, before he finally decides to act. Ransom slips out of his bed and into Holster’s, wrapping a tentative hand around Holster’s waist. Holster stirs, going tense, but Ransom just presses his forehead against Holster’s back until he relaxes. 

Ransom wakes to the blankets piled on his chest, the pillows on the other side of the bed cool to the touch. He sits up, looking around the room, but Holster’s long gone. It’s been months since Ransom woke up alone, and it’s unnerving. Unease settles under Ransom’s skin and stays there all through breakfast, lingering for the duration of his shift behind the wheel. Holster’s in the passenger seat, Shitty and Lardo curled up together in the back watching something on Lardo’s laptop. Holster doesn’t scroll through Ransom’s music and curate a specific playlist like he usually does; he puts Ransom’s library on shuffle and drops his phone in the cupholder. After Shitty and Lardo have fallen asleep Ransom reaches across the gearshift and links their fingers together the way Holster always did whenever they drove into town. Holster stares staunchly ahead, thick brows furrowing together for just a moment before his expression smooths out. 

“You needs both hands to drive.” Holster says, removing his hand from Ransom’s grip. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, tugs on his seatbelt, and finally settles with both hands clasped together in his lap. 

“Right,” Ransom studies him as best he can without crashing the car. Anxiety buzzes down his neck and deep into his stomach, sparking from the friction. He can’t talk about this now with three hundred more miles before they can stop and look for a motel. Holster’s silent beside him, only answering in one word answers when someone asks him a question or requests a specific song. 

Ransom lasts for two hundred and eighty nine miles before he pulls over, unable to ignore the ball of worry that’s vibrating through his chest, weighing down his lungs and crawling over his ribs. It’s only their second day on the road but they’ve already settled into a routine: Shitty secures the rooms while Lardo and Holster gather their bags and Ransom quickly cleans the car. Shitty hands off their room card when they walk in and he and Lardo quickly peel off, exhausted from the day’s travels. 

Holster follows Ransom to their room. It’s smaller than last night’s with one large bed instead of two, and Ransom can hear Holster’s exasperated sigh behind him. He tosses their bag on the bed and glares down at it like it’s personally offended him. 

“What now?” Ransom asks, anxiety converting to frustration. He can’t take any more of this and he’s tried, he’s  _ tried _ to be understanding, but he can’t do anything to help if Holster doesn’t meet him halfway. “You’ve been out of sorts all day but what’s pissing you off now?”

“Nothing,” Holster says, tone flat and cold. He tugs open the back with tight, rough movements, extracting his toiletry case with far more force than necessary. Ransom sighs, wishing Holster would at least turn to look at him. They’ve never fought before, so Ransom isn’t exactly sure how it’s supposed to go, but he doesn’t want to argue with the back of Holster’s head. 

“Look,” Ransom begins, walking around the bed to force Holster to look at him. “We all understand that this is difficult for you but we’re  _ helping _ you, Adam. You can’t be a dick to us, to  _ me _ . It’s not fair.” Holster’s blue eyes flash as he glances up at Ransom, just for a moment, before returning his gaze to the bag. Ransom doesn’t recognize the anger simmering over Holster’s shoulders, settling into his hands and furrowed brow. 

“Feels pretty fair to me,” Holster replies, and Ransom takes a step back as he tries to unload what that even means. He examines the past few days, carefully turning them over to examine them from every angle, and he has no idea what he could have done to justify this response. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Ransom’s voice is rougher than he intends, but at least his tone makes Holster look up. Ransom’s relieved, for just a moment, and then he takes in Holster’s expression. His eyes are narrowed, mouth turned down in a deep frown, cheeks flushed from emotion. 

“I heard you and Bitty,” Holster says as he plucks a shirt out of the bag and immediately balls it up in his hands before throwing it back in. 

“Again, what the fuck does that mean?” Ransom asks, reaching out to pick up the bag and toss it to the other side of the bed so Holster’s forced to look at him while they work through this. 

“At Jack’s house, before we left this morning. Bitty said he wanted to set you up on a date and you agreed.” Holster explains, and for a moment Ransom’s convinced he misheard him. He doesn’t reply, waiting for Holster to actually explain what’s made him so upset, but Holster just shakes his head, incredulous. “How can you not understand why that would make me angry?” He asks, and anger spikes in Ransom’s chest because  _ of course _ he doesn’t understand - that’s they they’re even talking about this at all. 

“Uh, because I don’t?” Ransom shoots back, placing his hands on his hips. Heat gathers in his cheeks and throat. It’s been a long, long time since he’s felt like this, like he could rip something apart with his hands or words or both. 

“Jesus, Ransom.” Holster throws his hands in the air and it’s fucking infuriating. His voice is all white water, churning over treacherous rocks and hidden obstacles beneath the surface as it thunders through a valley. 

“I don’t!” Ransom’s yelling now, hurling the words across the bed, not caring if anyone can hear them through the thin motel walls. He’s learned a lot about not caring what other people think in the past few months, and now, for the first time, he truly doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone in the surrounding rooms might think about them. 

“Oh, I’m sorry then.” Holster slips into sarcasm and Ransom scoffs, the words further igniting the fire burning in his chest. Holster crosses his arms over his chest before he continues. “My bad. I guess  _ I’m _ the asshole for not wanting my  _ husband _ to go on a date with some random woman!” 

Everything goes still. Holster’s eyes are a stormy sea, whitecaps breaking against the hull of a battered ship, and the fire burning in Ransom’s stomach is extinguished instantly. 

“Your - but. We’re not - I’m your  _ what _ ?” Ransom sputters, the words leaving his mouth so slowly he swears he can see the vibrations flowing through the air. He can’t - he can’t  _ think _ like this, not with Holster glaring at him, not when the words Holster’s saying don’t make any sense, not when it’s everything he’s ever wanted and absolutely devastating all at the same time. Ransom wasn’t designed to feel this many emotions at once; they crowd his chest, pressing against his ribs and collarbone so hard he’s worried the bones might crack under the pressure. 

“Marriage might not mean anything to you but it means something to me and I can’t believe you’re the kind of person who would do something like this.” Holster says, and each word is a punch to the gut. 

Ransom takes a gasping, heaving breath, and out of all the responses shuffling through his mind all that manages to come out is, “You think we’re married?” Just when he thinks time’s sped up to its regular pace Holster freezes. 

“What?” Holster asks, voice still as a forgotten tidal pool at low tide. 

“When did we get married?” Ransom manages to ask, barely stringing the correct words together. Why is talking so hard? Why is he suddenly so aware of his breathing? Why isn’t Holster saying anything? The questions roar in Ransom’s ear, a conch capturing the sound of a distant sea. Holster opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. 

“When I gave you my - holy  _ fuck. _ ” He says, voice soft. His face is pale as he takes a step back, hands raised as if he’s fending off an attack. “Oh my God, you didn’t know?” Holster’s face is twisted in grief, words dripping with incredulous horror. 

“How could I? I didn’t even know what a selkie was until you showed up!” Ransom says desperately, throwing out his arm as he tries to explain. 

“But you - you  _ summoned _ me. You waited for me on the beach for a week!” Holster’s eyes are wide and shocked as he speaks, hand carding through his hair as he tries to process what Ransom is telling him. 

“I just wanted to know who was singing!” Ransom yells, shoulders lifting in a tight shrug. How could Holster possibly manage to live together three months without bringing this up? “I didn’t think that was a proposal. We didn’t even - we didn’t even kiss.” Ransom’s voice grows quiet, tinged with confusion as the anger fades. 

“I thought you didn’t want to. I thought - I don’t know what I thought. Why did you let me sleep with you every night?” Holster’s voice is thick as he rubs his hands over his eyes, tall frame fraught with tension.“It doesn’t matter.  _ Fuck. _ I can’t be here.” He says, and springs into action. He gathers his toiletries and a few pieces of clothing from the bag with shaking before heading for the door and somehow, Ransom can’t make sense of what he’s doing until he’s out the door. 

“Adam, please,” Ransom calls just before the door slams shut, and suddenly, he’s alone again. Ransom’s not sure how long he stands there, staring at the bed, the bag, the spot Holster had been standing. Holster’s words echo through him, pulsing with the rabbit fast beat of his heart.  _ Husband. _ Holster thought they were  _ husbands _ . Everything about the past few months is different because of that one word, those two syllables. 

A soft knock at the door interrupts the constant stream of  _ husbandhusbandhusbandhusbandhusband _ that’s scrolling through Ransom’s brain. He walks over in a daze, hoping beyond all hope that when he opens the door Holster will be standing on the other side. He finds Shitty instead, clad only in boxers. 

“Ransom? Everything okay, brah?” Shitty asks as he sweeps into the room, leaving Ransom standing by the open door. 

“No, not at all.” Ransom says as he lets the door swing shut, drifting to the center of the room again. He sits on the bed, slumped forward. How can he explain what just happened if he doesn’t fully understand it himself yet? Luckily Shitty just climbs into bed and tugs Ransom down. 

“Yeah, Holster looked pretty upset. He asked to trade rooms for the night. Do you wanna tell me why?” Shitty asks as he tucks the blankets around Ransom’s chest. He walks around the room, shutting off the lights one by one. 

“No,” Ransom says, and when Shitty just shrugs he’s never loved his friend more. The room is quiet other than Shitty’s steady breathing, and Ransom’s relieved he doesn’t have to be alone while he processes what the hell just happened. 

Ransom has a husband. Ransom is in love with his husband, and it makes him feel sick. Ransom is in love with his husband, and his husband has no idea. Ransom is in love with his husband, and he has no idea how to tell him. 

Ransom is in love with his husband, and his husband just might love him back. 

Shitty doesn’t curl around him like Holster did, but he reaches across the mattress to hold Ransom’s hand, and it’s comforting in its own way. Ransom doesn’t fall into a deep sleep, mind still spinning with the knowledge that he accidentally married the man he’s now in love with, but his doze is interrupted by a banging on the door. He groans, twisting his fingers out of Shitty’s grip to scrub his hands over his eyes. The clock on the bedside table reads 5:58am. The banging returns, and when Ransom finally manages to stumble to the door and unlock it with sleep-stupid fingers he finds Lardo on the other side. 

“The fuck, Lards?” Ransom asks, and Shitty groans his agreement from the bed. Lardo reaches past him to flick on the fluorescent lights and barges into the room. Shitty tosses a garbled complaint her way but Lardo knocks it down with a glare. 

“We should get going. Holster’s been sick all night.” 


End file.
